MADAM 


MADAM 


BY 


ETHEL  SIDGWICK 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1921, 

BY  SMALL,  MAYNAKD  &  COMPANY 
(INCORPORATED) 


To 
AMERICA 

If  she  will  accept  so  poor  a  thing 

in  memory  and  in  gratitude 

Spring,  1921 


438712 


MADAM 

PROLOGUE    3 

I    LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED 13 

II    LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF 103 

III    PENNY  ROSES   221 

FINIS     336 


MADAM 


PROLOGUE 

ERITH  FLEMING  saw  Mott  first  in  the  golden 
days,  before  the  world  lost  its  innocence.  She 
was  staying,  as  often,  at  Wicken  Lodge,  and  went 
riding  with  Henry  Wicken,  to  whom  she  was 
then  engaged.  A  boy  with  a  freckled  face,  and 
intelligent,  rather  sly  grey  eyes,  held  the  horses 
as  they  came  forth. 

"Hullo,  Mott!"  said  Henry,  and  put  her  up. 
Mott's  eyes,  objectively  observant,  moved  across 
Erith  as  she  mounted.  There  was  a  young  lady, 
said  Mott's  eyes;  more,  there  was  the  young 
lady,  his  choice,  a  clinker  of  course.  The  look 
then  passed  on,  with  sedate  indifference,  to  the 
landscape.  Nor  did  he  salute  or  nod  in  answer 
to  Henry's  recognition.  His  smile  itself  was  in- 
visible: a  slight  increase  of  intelligence  in  his 
glance,  which  was  really  charming.  He  had  a 
clean  flannel  collar,  pink  ears,  and  was  every- 
thing that  the  son  of  a  submerged  family  coach- 
man, retired,  and  a  notably  pious  mother,  ought 
to  be.  Only,  he  did  not  touch  a  forelock  to 

3 


Henry,  nephew  and  heir  of  the  house:  merely 
beamed  at  him  obscurely, — much  as  it  were  Mr. 
Wicken's  oldest  friend. 

"Who  was  that  boy?"  said  Erith,  after  the 
necessary  interlude  for  dignity:  for  she  was  still 
young. 

"Mott  Lane,"  said  Henry.  "That's  Chris's 
younger  brother.  You  know  the  beautiful 
Chris?" 

Of  course  Miss  Fleming  did:  and  she  all  but 
forgot  Mott  at  once:  Chris,  lengthening  to  the 
verge  of  manhood,  was  so  much  more  interesting. 
She  had  long  had  to  conceal  a  perfectly  natural 
girlish  curiosity  as  to  Christopher.  He  was  the 
upper  stable-boy  at  the  Wickens' :  on  the  verge 
of  becoming  a  sub-groom,  or  whatever  is  the  next 
degree:  and  owing  his  status,  of  course,  to  the 
coachman  already  mentioned,  that  poor  official 
who  was  already  sinking  out  of  history.  Chris 
was  a  dancer  and  a  gallivant,  the  whispered  cau- 
tion of  a  naturally  correct  family,  who  sat  in  a 
long  row  at  church.  Terrible  tales  were  afloat 
of  Chris,  always  beginning  with  a  billiard- 
saloon  at  Wandsley.  Henry  often  asked  why  he 
could  play  billiards  badly  and  keep  his  charac- 
ter, while  the  devil  was  taking  Chris  Lane,  who 


PROLOGUE  5 

played  them  well.  Miss  Wicken,  a  delicate  and 
artistic  lady  of  the  old  school,  did  not  answer 
him :  she  merely  told  her  brother  almost  weekly 
that,  poor  old  Lane  notwithstanding,  they  would 
have  to  get  rid  of  Chris. 

"Oh,— Lanes,"  drawled  Erith.  "Ye-es.  What 
an  endless  family  they  are.  I  thought  you  told 
me  Chris  himself  was  the  fifth  son." 

"And  Mott  the  sixth,"  said  Henry,  "not  to 
mention  Maudie.  Can't  have  too  much  of  a  good 
thing, — it's  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning, — per- 
haps Mrs.  Lane  will  turn  in  time." 

Erith  looked  serious,  partly  to  reprove  him: 
partly  that  she  generally  was  serious  when  Henry 
was  witty,  since  she  was  a  wit  herself.  "It's 
really  awful,"  was  her  irritable  comment. 
"However  can  a  man  like  Lane  bring  them  up?" 

"They're  smart,"  replied  Henry.  "Chris  is  a 
real  devil  of  smartness, — wasted  smartness: 
there's  nothing  he  can't  do.  Mott,  though  prop- 
erer, — Mrs.  Lane  prays  for  him  less, — is,  I  be- 
lieve, just  as  brainy.  Just." 

"Perhaps  he'll  go  to  Oxford,"  said  Erith,  her 
lip  curled.  "He  looks  suitable." 

"Why?"  asked  Henry. 

"Oh,  his  nice  eyes  and  his  pious  origin.    He'd 


6  MADAM 

probably  go  straight  into  the  Church.  I  mean,  in 
any  country  less  snobbish  than  ours." 

"I  think  not,"  said  Henry.  "I  think  you  mis- 
judge Dermot  I  mean,  his  respect  for  his 
mother, — Mrs.  Lane  instigates  respect,  in  in- 
fancy,— is  only  equalled  by  his  admiration  for 
Chris.  I  admire  Chris  myself,  in  spite  of  Auntie, 
— but  Mott  beats  me.  He  would  let  Chris  walk 
orer  him,  or  horsewhip  him, — and,  as  you  see,  he 
does  Chris's  work  for  him  on  Saturday  after- 
noon. Chris  is  now  at  billiards  with  the  bank- 
manager's  son,  and  Mott  is  longing  to  mark  for 
him,  simply  longing, — but  he  holds  your  horse." 

"What  a  lot  you  know  about  them,"  said  Erith, 
suddenly  scornful  from  another  angle. 

"I  thought  you  were  interested,"  said  Henry, 
who  had  quite  good  manners.  Even  when  Erith, 
next  year,  ceased  being  engaged  to  him,  she  ad- 
mitted that. 

She  was  engaged  (though  not  yet  formally)  to 
a  friend  of  Henry's,  Nicholas  Glover,  when  she 
next  ran  across  the  Lane  family,  in  a  newspaper. 

"I  hope  those  are  not  Henry's  Lanes,"  said 
Erith  in  public,  flushed  a  little:  because  she 
hoped  they  were.  They  were  mentioned,  with 


PROLOGUE  7 

unction,  on  a  popular  page,  as  comprising  a  rec- 
ord number  of  casualties.  Six  sons  and  a  daugh- 
ter, of  whom,  five  sons  cut  off. 

"Cut  off"  would  be  Mrs.  Lane's  word,  thought 
Erith,  her  eye  dwelling  curiously  on  the  list :  for 
she  soon  guessed,  since  Wandsley  was  mentioned, 
what  Lanes  they  were.  Captains  and  what  not 
— they  had  done  well,  as  Henry  predicted,  once 
the  dice-box  of  the  world  was  shaken,  and  the 
chance  came.  Why,  Nichol  Glover  was  no  more 
than  Captain,  though  of  course  in  a  super- 
exquisite  regiment.  Artillery, — Air  Force, — 
there  they  were:  medals,  too;  she  wondered 
which  was  Christopher,  or  whether  he  survived. 
Mott,  from  her  mind,  had  been  all  but  obliter- 
ated: but  Chris  could  never  be,  such  power 
young  Pan  hath  still  in  the  world.  Whichever 
of  the  Lanes  was  the  survivor,  at  least  he  survived 
whole,  not  maimed,  like  Henry;  otherwise  the 
newspaper  of  unction  must  have  mentioned  him. 
One  more  wound  or  limb  missing  would  have 
been  considered  an  asset  to  the  reading  public,  in 
a  record  like  this. 

"How  absolutely  ghoulish  these  rags  are,"  said 
Erith,  having  read  the  paragraph  with  still  at- 
tention. "Burnt  to  death, — charred,  and  still  liv- 


8  MADAM 

ing  when  he  reached  the  ground, — how  they  can 
tell  such  things!  Fancy  the  mother  reading  it!" 

"It's  much  worse,"  remarked  Glover,  "for  the 
men  who  are  on  the  spot." 

"Oh,  Nichol!"  said  his  sisters:  while  his 
mother  sat  with  clasped  hands,  her  look  awing 
him  to  silence.  But  Lady  Glover  did  not  awe 
Erith. 

"Nichol  means,"  she  said,  "that  people  with- 
out a  grain  of  imagination,  as  even  some  mothers 
are,  can  read  those  things  with  their  eyes  and 
tongues,  and  keep  their  spirit  right  away.  It  is 
one  of  the  strange  effects  of  print  on  the  half- 
educated  mind.  But  seeing  it  can  knock  a  man 
right  out,  even  a  common  soldier, — can't  it, 
Nichol?" 

He  nodded,  his  eyes  dwelling  on  her  face,  for 
he  was  in  love  with  her.  Even  when  she  was  en- 
gaged to  Henry,  in  the  golden  era,  he  had  loved 
Erith:  he  could  hardly  credit  his  fortune  now. 
She  had  a  wonderful  power  of  picking  up  his 
thought  and  putting  it  into  words  for  him,  with 
just  the  tone  and  accent  he  liked.  She  was  sim- 
ply the  most  sympathetic  girl  he  knew,  as  well  as 
the  loveliest;  others  of  his  friends  assured  him 


PROLOGUE  9 

of  it;  she  guessed  their  feelings  singly,  not  in  the 
mass. 

"It  is  so,"  wrote  Henry,  in  answer  to  Erith's 
question.  "It  is  a  long  time  since  they  moved 
away  from  Wicken  to  Wandsley;  but  my  aunt 
hears  from  Mrs.  Lane,  at  the  period  of  the  yearly 
pension,  regularly.  We  knew  of  course  that  all 
the  lads  were  in  the  army,  and  all  but  Mott  in 
France.  Mrs.  Lane,  we  gathered,  prayed  for 
them  all  but  Chris,  who  was  in  the  most  danger- 
ous place  and  work.  Chris  was  a  devil  as  usual, 
—I  use  the  word  in  its  best  sense.  He  did  a  num- 
ber of  things,  was  decorated  and  so  on,  and  got 
himself  burnt  to  death  for  no  reason  but  that  (I 
believe)  he  was  drunk.  But  then  we  were  all 
that,  I  should  not  think  of  blaming  him.  The 
eye-witness  we  met  told  self  and  uncle  that  he 
cursed  God  and  died, — small  wonder.  In  her 
last  letter  Mrs.  Lane  talked  of  dear  Christopher, 
in  with  the  rest,  for  the  first  time.  My  uncle, 
being  something  innocent,  was  amazed.  I  sug- 
gested that  he  had  gone  to  heaven  by  way  of  the 
newspapers :  but  even  so,  Uncle  was  disturbed. 
He  thought  the  widow's  brain  must  be  slightly 
turned  by  misfortune:  no  sons  left,  you  see,  but 
Mott.  But  it  is  not  so.  Asses  of  correspondents 


io  MADAM 

have  called  on  Mrs.  Lane.  Chris  has  gone  to 
heaven,  and  Mott  is  lost  to  grace.  Mrs.  Lane  ex- 
plains, in  Biblical  diction,  which  fits  the  subject 
admirably,  that  Mott  has  gone  on  the  rampage 
with  Chris's  best  girl.  You  can  use  your  Sibyl- 
line powers,  Erith,  over  that." 

To  Nichol  Henry  wrote: 

"My  aunt  was  horrified  that  I  wept  over  Chris 
Lane.  But  then,  I  used  to  bathe  with  him  in  the 
old  days.  I  hope,  Nichol,  when  nothing  but 
memories  are  left  to  console  me,  I  shall  see  him 
again  like  that,  wet  and  wonderful:  not  the 
charred  thing  crawling  away  those  eye-witnesses 
depicted.  Life  is  wicked,  especially  now:  but 
not  so  baleful  as  to  make  the  human  mind  prefer, 
to  the  end,  a  picture  like  that." 


PART  I 


I 

LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED 

Miss  ASTLEY  was  shopping,  necessarily  at  the 
most  crowded  hour  of  the  day:  because,  during 
all  the  other  hours,  she  was  either  working,  going 
towards  her  work,  or  going  home. 

She  was  one  of  the  cloud  of  girls  with  des- 
patch-cases who  throng  the  murky  streets  and 
mid-day  restaurants  of  London.  Caroline  was 
her  name,  Lina  (accent  long)  she  was  called  at 
home,  but  she  was  "Miss"  to  such  a  preponderat- 
ing section  of  her  acquaintance,  everywhere,  that 
she  must  step  as  Miss  Astley  upon  these  pages. 
Miss  Fleming  flung  about  life  and  society  as 
Erith, — so  also  did  girls  in  a  'grade  just  below 
Caroline's;  but  Miss  Astley,  with  C.  E.  A.  upon 
a  despatch-case,  kept  her  quality  most  delicately 
distinct  from  theirs. 

She  had  two  crowded  hours  for  shopping  to 
choose  from :  either  before  work,  when  the  shops 
were  languid  and  stupid:  or  after  work  when 
they  were  just  closing,  hurried  and  cross.  There 

13 


i4  MADAM 

was  also  the  luncheon-hour,  from  which  she  pre- 
ferred not  to  abstract  any  portion,  though  she 
frequently  had  to  do  so.  On  her  Sundays  and 
Saturday  afternoons,  the  stores  were  of  course 
shut,  and  the  "young  ladies"  of  the  shop-depart- 
ments were  butterflies,  free  as  air  about  the 
pleasure-houses  and  the  causeways.  That  was  as 
it  should  be, — Miss  Astley  did  not  complain  of 
that;  but  it  meant  long  and  harassing  struggles 
to  get  herself  small  necessities,  at  the  possible 
hours,  and  the  price  within  her  means.  For  pov- 
erty, as  the  poor  know,  is  itself  a  waste  of  time 
and  nerve-power;  no  small  crease  in  the  petals 
of  life  but  is  smoothed  at  once  for  a  full  purse. 

Thus  she  was  engaged  one  evening  in  the 
battle  for  buttons ;  necessary  buttons,  of  the  kind 
that  cheap  washerwomen  most  delight  to  tear 
and  dislocate :  when  she  heard  a  man  at  her  side 
demanding  "woollen  thread."  It  was  such  a  de- 
mand, to  a  woman's  ear,  and  he  was  such  a  young 
man,  that  the  attention  not  only  of  the  local 
young  lady,  but  that  of  all  the  other  young  ladies, 
including  Caroline's,  was  gapingly  drawn  in  his 
direction.  He  was  one  of  three,  as  such  gentle- 
men generally  are :  for  Gratiano  is  nothing  with- 
out his  following. 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  15 

"Thread  for  mending,  was  it,  sir?"  said  the 
girl  with  sympathy. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  young  man,  in  the 
idiom  of  the  day.  "For  a  coat." 

"A  tear  in  cloth,  sir?  That  would  be  wool- 
mendin'  ?  Khaki,  is  it?"  She  looked  at  the  boy's 
costume. 

"Blue,"  said  the  youth.  "A  kind  of  darkish- 
blue.  Isn't  that  what  the  Force  wears?  You 
know  best." 

Here  the  girl  giggled:  and — "drop  it, 
Mousie,"  said  one  of  Gratiano's  group  behind. 

"Here,  now,  clear  out,  sir,"  said  a  secretly- 
smiling  shop-walker. 

"Can  you  match  that  button?"  said  Mousie. 
The  button  presented  was  one  of  his  Majesty's 
police-force,  beyond  the  smallest  mistake. 

"You  send  that  back  where  it  belongs,  and 
clear,"  said  the  shop-walker.  All  the  girls  were 
now  in  an  ecstatic  bunch :  the  fearful  tension  of 
the  worst  hour  of  the  day  so  delightfully  re- 
lieved, that  even  Miss  Astley,  herself  hurried  and 
harassed,  could  scarce  forbear  to  smile. 

"Before  who  it  belongs  to  comes  after  you," 
added  the  shop-walker,  in  a  shy  mutter,  with- 
drawing ;  for  a  real  lady,  a  lovely  young  creature 


16  MADAM 

clad  in  some  chic  uniform  or  other,  claimed  his 
attention. 

"No  remnants,  Madam,  no.  Last  year? — very 
possibly,  Madam:  they  don't  make  that  line 
now,  they  was  finished  abroad.  Yes,  I  fear  so, 
Madam.  Well,  Madam,  we  could  show  you  lace 
ones, — though  as  for  wearing, — ah,  we  can't 
guarantee  that." 

"Lace  ones,"  mimicked  the  young  man  called 
Mousie,  and  turned  his  eyes  a  moment  on  the 
young  lady's  face.  He  then  turned  them  rapidly 
away  again.  "Is  that  my  wool-mending? 
Thanks."  He  laid  hands  on  Miss  Astley's 
parcel,  and  before  she  could  make  a  movement 
or  utter  a  protesting  cry,  was  obliterated  in  the 
moving  throng. 

"Stop  him!"  said  the  shop-girl,  as  well  as  she 
could  for  laughing.  "That  was  the  lady's  little 
lot,  buttons  and  such — "  She  clutched  the  neigh- 
bouring young  lady,  and  they  rocked  together: 
it  was  all  as  good  as  a  pantomime,  the  latter  part. 
"Oh,  stop  him,  Mr.  Wilton,  would  you  mind? 
They  really  are!" 

"Did  he  take  your  parcel?"  said  the  girl  in 
uniform  to  Miss  Astley.  "Where's  his?  Look 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  17 

here,  I'll  catch  him,  shall  I?    He'll  never  get  out 
in  this  crush." 

"He  hadn't  got  a  parcel,  Madam,"  chimed  the 
girls.  "It  was  silliness  he  was  asking  for, — and 
out  for  too!" 

"I  daresay  he'd  had  a  drop,"  said  the  sour- 
faced  forewoman.  "Quiet  now,  down  there, 
please, — Mr.  Wilton'll  see  to  it.  Don't  you  trou- 
ble, Madam." 

This,  be  it  observed,  not  to  Miss  Astley,  de- 
prived of  her  property:  but  to  uniformed  Mad- 
am, who,  conscious  of  her  standing,  vigor,  and 
unhampered  legs,  had  offered  to  play  gendarme. 

"She's  off!"  whispered  girl  to  girl.  "I  say, 
suppose  she  knew  him! — he  looked  at  her,— 
what  say?" 

"Not  his  sort,"  said  the  next  girl/ with  utter 
confidence.  "Can't  you  tell  that?  She's  a  toff." 

"Hush  —  sh  —  sh !"  breathed  forewoman. 
"What  for  you,  Madam?  Oh,  you're  the  lady  as 
the  parcel's  was."  (Grammar  gets  a  little 
ragged  at  these  hours.)  "You  might  wait, 
but—" 

"I'd  better  have  some  more,"  said  Miss  Astley, 
looking  from  her  slender  purse  to  the  distant 
shop-walker.  One  might,  of  course,  make  a  com- 


i8  MADAM 

motion — it  was  the  shop's  affair;  but  Miss  Ast- 
leys  who  live  by  their  elegance  can  so  seldom 
afford  to. 

"It  was  a  mistake,  I  daresay,"  confided  the 
forewoman :  kind,  since  the  customer  was  pur- 
chasing again.  "Just  their  fun.  Happy  they  are, 
on  leave,  it's  excusable." 

"Not  very  honest  fun,"  said  Miss  Astley. 

"That's  true,  when  it  comes  to  property." 
Later  she  said — "If  the — the  gentleman  finds  his 
mistake  and  deposits  it,  we'd  refund,  naturally, 
should  you  care  to  call." 

"I  will  call,"  said  Miss  Astley,  "but  I  don't 
imagine  he  will  think  of  it." 

Nor,  by  the  rule,  should  she  have  thought 
again  of  the  little  loss,  the  small  sacrifice  to  her 
country's  boasted  cause,  and  beardless  cham- 
pions ;  but  all  day  long,  she  could  not  forget  that 
boy's  face.  It  was  his  expression,  as  he  looked 
round  at  the  girl  in  uniform,  that  she  remem- 
bered. His  bright  eyes  did  not  look  tipsy,  pre- 
cisely, at  that  moment, — they  were  far  too  keen; 
but  they  looked  chilled,  cruel,  and  in  some  meas- 
ure unearthly  or  unattached. 

"I  wonder  if  he  has  been  ill,"  thought  Miss 
Astley.  She  pondered  on  what  she  had  heard  of 


LONDON   IS   BEWITCHED  19 

kleptomania,  and  had  thoughts  of  questioning 
her  employer  upon  the  point;  but  though  she 
often  had  questions  she  longed  to  ask  her  em- 
ployer, it  never  came  to  it.  Though  she  had 
served  him  regularly  for  three  years,  she  did  not 
know  him  to  chat  with ;  and  granted  his  nature 
and  hers,  she  probably  never  would. 


II 


MlSS  ASTLEY  was  secretary,  typist,  and  general 
prompter  on  the  home-stage,  to  Mr.  Forrest  of 
Harley  Street,  the  noted  surgeon.  Mr.  Forrest, 
had  Miss  Astley  ever  deserted  him,  would  have 
been  afloat  and  drifting,  a  black-jawed  derelict; 
but  Miss  Astley  was  never  ill.  She  was  eternally 
pallid,  spruce  and  gentle:  appearing  with  the 
same  smile  behind  the  same  desk  to  Mr.  Forrest 
when,  at  a  fixed  hour,  he  looked  into  his  front 
room.  That  was  all  he  wanted — to  see  her; 
Miss  Astley  did  the  rest. 

She  knew  all  about  him,  and  his  tricks,  and  his 
telephone,  as  any  man-secretary  would  have 
done;  but  she  also  knew  all  about  his  household. 
Mr.  Forrest  was  a  woman-hater,  or  rather  de- 
spiser,  by  conviction,  and  presumed  to  govern 
alone;  consequently  the  cook  and  Miss  Astley 
did  most  of  it  for  him.  They  were  in  league; 
and  Caroline  considered  even  ten  minutes  not 
wasted,  while  the  cook  poured  forth  to  her  the 
lamentable  tale  of  how  the  "doctor"  had  brought 
in  four  gentlemen  to  dinner,  instead  of  the  one  he 

20 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  21 

had  promised,  two  of  them  foreigners  who 
crossed  their  forks;  and  of  how  they  would  talk 
of  the  most  awful  things  in  front  of  the  new 
"girl,"  who  had  been  hard  enough  to  find  as  Miss 
Astley  knew,  and  would  never  settle  in  such  ac- 
curately scientific  surroundings, — unless,  of 
course,  Miss  Astley  would  "do  a  bit  of  explain- 
ing to  her,  on  her  own  account." 

So  Miss  Astley  (on  anything  but  her  own  ac- 
count) would  then  spare  another  ten  minutes  of 
her  priceless  morning  to  "explain"  medical  so- 
ciety to  the  new  "girl" :  who  was  paid  all  but  her 
own  salary  for  merely  nominal  work,  and  showed 
it  in  her  head-dresses :  who  despised  Miss  Astley 
on  sight,  until  the  above  tete-a-tete  took  place: 
after  which  she  preferred  to  adore  her,  call  her 
everywhere  a  "real  lady,"  and  pant  helpfully 
round  corners  at  awkward  moments,  such  as 
when  Miss  Astley  was  shewing  out  a  titled  ap- 
plicant for  the  surgeon's  art. 

For  Mr.  Forrest  was  very,  very  skilful,  a  vir- 
tuoso of  his  craft;  and  foreign  parts  admired 
him  to  such  an  extent  that  Caroline  had  to  spend 
all  her  odd  time  at  home  improving  her  French. 
When  the  hour  came,  and  the  world  lost  its  in- 
nocence, Mr.  Forrest  went  forth  to  war, — his 


22  MADAM 

war, — and  legitimately  in  the  highest  spirits; 
then  the  acquired  French  became  yet  more  use- 
ful, for  he  sent  both  articles  and  people  home  to 
her  to  be  translated:  and  told  her  to  "go  to 
Ashwin"  if  she  got  tied  in  knots  over  the  etiquette 
or  the  tongue. 

Dr.  Ashwin,  living  nearly  opposite,  was  Mr. 
Forrest's  intimate  friend  and  only  critic,  and  was, 
so  long  as  he  lasted  in  London,  most  kind  and 
helpful  to  Caroline,  whose  pretty  figure  in  a  dark 
costume  might  at  times  be  seen  crossing  the  way. 
Unfortunately  he  went  to  the  war  as  well,  equally 
on  the  greater  crusade,  equally  with  that  holiday- 
air  of  undreamed-of  release  Caroline  knew  so 
well  in  all  the  doctors.  After  that  second  depar- 
ture, she  was  indeed  alone. 

Tales  of  adventure,  male  and  female,  hummed 
and  buzzed  about  Caroline,  in  streets  and  restau- 
rants, for  a  year;  but  for  all  they  troubled  her 
life,  they  might  have  been  pictured  on  a  "movie" 
or  in  a  magazine.  Then  Mr.  Forrest,  for  reasons 
she  could  have  enumerated  under  headings,  be- 
came more  wanted  in  London  than  he  was  in 
France,  and  returned  fuming:  for  he  had  en- 
joyed himself  hugely,  investigating  along  a 
certain  favourite  line.  Some  tyrant,  better  un- 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  23 

named,  bade  him  serve  Britain  in  a  manner  he 
enjoyed  far  less.  Mr.  Forrest,  who  would  have 
sent  Britain  to  the  devil  for  science,  refused  to 
be  consoled  by  the  most  fashionable  decoration 
his  overlords  could  find  for  him ;  and  made  Miss 
Astley's  life  simply  not  worth  living,  for  more 
than  a  month,  by  persistent  and  violent  ill- 
temper.  His  wrath  was  increased  by  a  bad  diges- 
tion, and  by  the  fact  that  he  had  been  revelling 
in  French  food,  which  was  calculated,  as  he  told 
his  cook,  to  feed  you,  as  well  as  to  look  decent 
upon  the  dish.  He  simply  could  not  bear  the 
aspect  of  potatoes  and  parsnips,  plain-boiled; 
and  yet  could  not  for  his  life  explain  to  the 
woman  what  he  wanted  improved.  The  cook 
wept:  the  latest  "girl"  who  was  anaemic,  went 
about  as  white  as  the  vegetable  dish  she  carried : 
and  Mr.  Forrest's  patients  began  to  whisper 
fears  that  he  was  "one  of  the  people  whom  the 
War  seemed  to  have  hardened  beyond  recall." 

But  Miss  Astley  bought  a  French  cookery- 
book,  practised  a  thing  or  two  at  home,  and  told 
the  cook,  who  had  tearfully  given  notice,  that 
they  were  quite  easy  if  she  liked  to  try.  A  week 
later,  Mr.  Forrest  brought  three  foreigners  home 
to  dinner,  unwarned,  because  (he  said)  "the 


24  MADAM 

woman  he  had  could  manage,  not  too  badly." 
They  all  crossed  their  forks,  and  talked  more  ac- 
curately and  awfully  than  ever,  before  the  ane- 
mic "girl":  but  in  French,  so  she  survived  it. 
The  cook  withdrew  her  notice,  without  Mr.  For- 
rest being  ever  aware  that  it  had  been  presented. 
The  household  settled  to  its  pre-war  ways,  with 
the  exception  of  the  friendly  resource  in  the 
Ashwin  mansion,  which  remained  in  the  East, 
inexorably.  That  house  fell  under  female  occu- 
pation, and  was  shunned,  in  consequence,  by  Mr. 
Forrest,  with  the  most  uncivil  determination  (for 
he  knew  both  Dr.  Ashwin's  wife  and  his  married 
daughter  perfectly  well).  He  had  news  of  his 
friend,  chiefly  through  the  public  press,  grap- 
pling with  grisly  diseases,  in  the  most  insanitary 
circumstances  and  climates;  and  swore,  at  such 
times,  that  Ashwin  had  all  the  luck.  But,  on  the 
whole,  having  mislaid  his  decoration,  he  became 
reconciled  to  London  life,  placated;  and  it  was 
largely  the  sight  of  Miss  Astley,  settling  morn- 
ing after  morning  with  her  despatch-case,  behind 
her  habitual  desk,  that  reconciled  him.  Had  all 
women  behaved,  and  looked,  like  Miss  Astley, 
Mr.  Forrest  could  have  tolerated  the  sex,  with 
ease. 


LONDON   IS   BEWITCHED  25 

The  fact  was,  that  Miss  Astley,  pale  and  thin 
as  she  now  was, — perpetually  hungry,  sleepy, 
foreboding  and  overdriven  as  was  every  woman 
of  decent  activity  and  feeling,  at  the  period  in 
question, — was  nice  to  look  at.  Of  this,  proba- 
bly, Mr.  Forrest  had  no  idea. 

"I  see  your  young  lady  has  not  deserted  you," 
said  an  amiable  because  grateful  marchioness. 
"For  government  work,  I  mean.  Perhaps  she 
might  be  fatter  if  she  did  I" 

Mr.  Forrest,  not  versed  in  the  fashionable 
jokes,  did  not  smile. 

"I  suppose  she's  asked  you  for  a  rise,"  said  the 
lady. 

"I  give  her  what  she's  worth,"  said  Mr.  For- 
rest; because,  honestly,  he  thought  he  did. 

"Not  engaged,  either?  No  soldiers?  Oh, 
you're  in  luck  indeed !  If  you  knew  what  house- 
holds are  now — " 

"I  do,"  said  Mr.  Forrest:  who  really  thought 
he  knew.  "I  believe,"  he  said,  "that  my  young 
lady,  as  you  call  her,  is  one  of  the  chosen  few  who 
are  uninterested  in  army  men,  as  such." 

"Impossible,"  said  the  lady. 

"Why  should  she  be?"  said  Mr.  Forrest 


26  MADAM 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Oh,  Man! — 
to  ask  why,  of  a  woman !" 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Forrest,  "that  she  is  one  of 
the  women,  of  whom  I  could  ask,  and  expect,  an 
intelligible  answer." 

The  lady  thought  this  too  rude,  and  said  good- 
bye without  offending  further;  but  her  unhal- 
lowed interference  with  his  fixed  establishment, 
his  fated  and  permanent  train  of  secretary,  cook, 
and  "girl," — for  he  never  noticed  that  the  latter 
altered, — hurt  Mr.  Forrest  in  his  digestion,  all 
that  day. 


Ill 

THAT  Miss  Astley  belonged  to  any  world  but 
theirs  hardly  occurred  to  the  Harley  Street  cen- 
tre :  but  of  course  she  did :  girls  must.  She  had 
a  model  family  at  Clapham :  a  father,  mother, 
and  sister:  and  would  probably  have  a  sister's 
suitor,  pretty  soon. 

She  was  sitting  one  day  (Sunday,  of  course) 
on  a  seat  in  the  park  with  her  sister  Lu.  They 
had  not  been  to  church,  because  Lu  had  a  head- 
ache: she  had  been  singing  rather  late,  for  the 
soldiers,  the  night  before. 

Lu  was  now  in  a  hospital,  Voluntary  Aid,  and 
wore  the  dress,  but  she  had  had  a  season's  essay 
as  a  singer,  first.  Fancy  Farrell  was  the  name 
she  had  selected  for  herself,  and  Miss  Astley  dis- 
liked it:  she  could  not  see  why  Lucy  Astley 
should  not  do.  Lu  was  still  very  young,  and  as 
pretty  as  a  peeping  spring  flower :  wherefore  the 
Astley  household,  as  on  a  pivot,  turned  about  Lu. 
She  was  to  be  cherished,  counselled,  fed  on  the 
daintiest,  helped  towards  the  marriage  that 

mother  and  sister  had  romantically  devised.    It 

27 


28  MADAM 

was  a  real  relief  to  them,  when  she  ceased  to  be 
Fancy  Farrell,  with  hair  a  trifle  over-curled  on 
the  right  eyebrow;  and  went  into  a  hospital  in  a 
neat  dark  blue  costume. 

Even  as  it  was,  Lu  knew  soldiers,  many  sol- 
diers: and  some  she  introduced  to  mother  and 
sister,  but  many  she  did  not.  She  was  watching 
them  this  afternoon,  and  they  at  times  were 
watching  her;  though  she  talked  soberly  enough 
to  "Lina"  about  their  common  affairs. 

Suddenly,  as  a  fresh  group  passed,  she  saw  it 
held  up,  completely.  She  had  felt  her  sister 
move,  and  almost  at  the  same  instant,  the  tallest 
of  the  bunch,  whose  careless  eyes  had  been  slink- 
ing towards  Lu,  stood  still. 

"It  is,"  said  he.  "Me  preserver," — and 
clutched  a  comrade  to  either  side. 

"Which,  the  little  one?"  said  the  comrade. 
"She's  light  to  tackle  you,  Mouse."  Their  mirth 
was  much. 

But  the  young  man  was  very  carefully  extract- 
ing a  torn  and  crumpled  parcel  from  the  pocket 
of  his  coat.  He  balanced  it,  and  its  half-visible 
contents,  on  a  hand,  and  held  it  out  to  Miss  Ast- 
Icy. 

"Your  lot,  Madam,"  said  he. 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  29 

"Well,  I  never!"  said  Lu,  colouring.  Of 
course,  in  the  hospital,  one  never  tolerated 
"cheek"  like  this.  But  her  sister  surprised  her. 

"How  did  you  remember?"  Miss  Astley  said. 
She  was  utterly  perplexed  how,  in  that  crowd, 
and  wild  as  he  had  been,  his  eyes  had  picked  her 
up.  It  must  have  been,  as  it  were,  unconsciously 
to  himself:  it  could  not  have  been  by  any  inten- 
tion to  remember  her. 

"Found  you  out!"  His  brow  cleared.  "You 
don't  get  off,  any  of  you.  Oh,  Lord !" 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing,  Mousie?"  said 
an  amiable  friend.  None  of  the  group,  granted 
Lu,  objected  to  stopping:  but  here  was  their 
leader  engaged  by  the  wrong  girl. 

"The  relief!""  he  cried.  "Each  of  them 
weighing  on  me,  nightly, — a  dozen  and  a  half. 
Useless  for  the  stunt,  too,"  he  added.  "It  was — - 
an  oversight." 

"It  was  not,"  said  Miss  Astley,  low. 

"She  says  it  wasn't,  Eric.  Is  it — is  it  too  late?" 
His  strange  eyes  were  on  her,  inciting,  urging  her 
to  something.  What  was  it? 

"Do  laugh,"  he  said,  hardly  audible. 

Miss  Astley  laughed,  though  she  flushed  as 
well.  No  man  in  the  world  had  ever  so  looked  at 


30  MADAM 

her,  still  less  hustled  her  into  laughing  against 
her  will.  The  sensation  was  extraordinary.  But 
stronger  than  anything  was  the  need  to  protect 
Lu  from  these  young  carnivallers ;  that  being  no 
more  than  her  sisterly  habit,  or  office,  she  turned 
about. 

So  looking,  she  saw  that  Lu  had  found  a 
friend,  or  at  least  an  acquaintance,  in  the  skirts 
of  the  band;  for  other  stragglers  had  come  up, 
now,  all  more  or  less  annexed  to  Mousie.  Lu's 
acquaintance,  carrying  the  convalescent's  band 
of  blue  on  his  brown  arm,  looked  faintly  sheep- 
ish, while  she  exchanged  with  him  the  well- 
judged  chaff  of  a  perfect  hospital;  for  our 
Voluntary  Aids  were  nothing  if  not  dignified,  on 
principle. 

Mousie's  gaze  also  slunk  towards  Lu,  consid- 
ering her;  he  completed,  as  it  were,  the  glance 
he  had  originally  begun.  What  Mousie's  own 
garb  was,  Miss  Astley  never  noticed,  any  more 
than  she  had  on  the  first  occasion.  She  had  then 
had  the  general  impression  of  trimness  that 
marks  the  airman,  and  this  she  had  still.  It  was 
Lu  who  informed  her  later  that  all  the  company 
were  wearing  private's  khaki,  as  it  were,  indis- 
tinguishable; and  Lu  was  not  a  person  who 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  31 

could  be  doubted,  her  bright  eyes  being  unfail- 
ing for  the  smaller  things.  Almost  as  soon  as 
Mousie  glanced  in  her  direction,  Lu  became  con- 
scious of  it. 

"Well,  have  you  finished?"  she  said,  with  faint 
satire,  addressing  her  sister,  though  her  eyes 
passed  across  him. 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  said  Mousie. 

"She  bought  some  more  buttons,  if  that's  what 
you  mean." 

He  looked  startled.    "No!" 

"They  are  things,"  said  Miss  Astley,  as  his 
fingers  reached  his  pocket,  "that  are  always  nec- 
essary." 

"To  the  end— of  life,"  said  Mousie.  "Then  I 
need  not — " 

"No.  And  please,  now,  go  on  with  your 
walk." 

He  went  on,  immediately,  to  Lucy's  secret  cha- 
grin :  drawing,  as  Gratiano  must,  his  escort  along 
with  him. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  if  he  thinks  himself  a 
gentleman,"  said  Lu,  composing  herself  upon  the 
seat,  "because  I  don't." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Astley,  doubtful:  his  accent 
was  so  good. 


32  MADAM 

"Fancy  mentioning. buttons  in  that  way,  and 
emphasising  one's  private  shopping.  I  don't 
think  it's  nice." 

"He  wanted  to  restore  them,"  said  Caroline. 

"Oh  yes !  He  wanted  to  make  a  little  more  stir 
about  it,  openly." 

"But  he  needn't  have  seen  me,"  said  Miss  Ast- 
ley:  driven  somehow  to  defend  Mousie. 

Secretly  Lu  thought — "It  was  me  he  saw." 

"Such  a  name,  too,"  was  all  she  said  aloud. 

"It's  a  nickname." 

"I  mean  Lancaster.  That's  what  they  call 
him, — Mouse  Lancaster.  I've  heard  his  name 
before  this, — some  of  our  lot  know  him." 

There  was  rather  a  long  interval,  Miss  Astley 
startled  by  the  aristocratic  ring  of  it.  "Perhaps 
it's  a  stage  name,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Like  mine?  You  never  let  mine  alone.  I 
don't  believe  he's  been  on  the  boards,  though. 
Some  kind  of  motor-engineering,  since  he  left 
the  Air  Force,  Foote  said.  He's  never  been  out." 

Out  to  France,  Lu  meant,  of  course.  "Was  he 
in  the  Air  Force?"  her  sister  asked. 

Lu  nodded.  "Lost  his  nerve,  and  that 

Ask  me,  and  I'd  say  he'd  nerve  enough,"  added 
Lucy. 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  33 

"Oh,  was  he  ill?" 

"No,"  she  drawled.  "More  like  a  coward. 
They  turned  him  down." 

"But  nerves  aren't  cowardice.  Don't  you  re- 
member— " 

Lu  cut  through,  rather  crossly.  "Oh,  Lord, 
yes, — have  it  your  own  way.  I'd  not  have  a  man 
I  cared  for  fooling  about  London  in  his  off-time, 
anyhow.  Sure  as  anything  he'd  disgrace  you, 
that  sort.  Foote  said  he'd  done  things — the  po- 
lice would  be  in  the  right  of  it,  if  they  ran  him 
in—" 

"I  hope  he'll  never  be  in  prison,"  thought  Miss 
Astley,  "with  eyes  like  that." 

She  almost  prayed  it,  since  it  was  Sunday,  and 
such  a  sweet  spring  day.  That  ache-of-the-times 
was  in  her,  which,  re-awakening  every  war- 
spring,  lasted  till  the  following  one,  for  the  youth 
of  the  world  in  thrall.  What  were  they  doing, 
boys  of  that  sort,  and  boys  worse  occupied 

For  at  least  Mousie  had  restored  her  buttons 
to  her:  she  clung  to  that. 


IV 

"NlCHOL,"  said  Erith,  at  a  restaurant  before  the 
theatre,  "I  saw  such  a  weird  man  to-day."  She 
related  the  story  of  the  stolen  parcel  very  clev- 
erly. "He  made  me  think  of  somebody,  that's 
the  odd  part.  I  wish  I  could  remember  who." 

"I  hope  you  don't  know  many  thieves,"  said 
Captain  Glover,  now  an  openly-engaged  man, 
and  very  contented.  "Has  despatch-riding 
brought  you  down  to  that?" 

"Oh,  stealing  was  the  least  of  it:  it  was  his 
wicked  look.  Just  as  though  he  knew  me,  and 
had  known  me  ages.  It  haunts  me  somehow, — 
how  dared  he?" 

"What  kind  of  a  lad  was  he?"  said  Nichol. 

"No  gentleman,  if  you  mean  that.  One  of  the 
new  kind, — plain  wood  polished, — lacquered — " 

"A  whited  sepulchre,"  said  Glover.  "But  I 
say :  some  of  that  lot  are  first  class." 

"They're  not,  because  they're  pretentious. 
They're  deceptive.  They  raise  your  hopes  for  a 
minute,  and  then  by  a  word,  or  a  way  of  looking 
at  things, — ugh !  This  man  would  have  taken  in 

34 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  35 

lots  of  people,  I  daresay.  The  shopwalker  was 
'sirring'  him,  and  the  girls—!  But  what  I  felt 
most  about  him, — listen,  Nichol, — was  that  he 
was  dangerous :  a  danger  to  the  community.  He 
was  out  to  hurt,  as  well  as  to  hustle.  His  jokes 
would  have  a  point  in  them,  if  possible, — meant 
to  make  himself  felt." 

"Well,  he  seems  to  have  done  so.  I  don't  say 
I'm  jealous,  but— 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be!  He  didn't  dare  take  a 
shot  at  me.  It  was  the  other  girl  he  injured. 
Flat  stealing,  wasn't  it?"  She  seemed  eager. 

''M."  said  Nichol.  "Some  of  the  lads,  you 
know,  are  pretty  wild.  We've  bred'm  for  it, — 
we  oughtn't  much  to  complain.  What  I  mean  is, 
some  of  'em  want  to  pay  back  society  for  what 
they  have  suffered :  it  takes  them  that  way." 

"Hasn't  everybody  suffered?"  said  Erith. 

"M."  Nichol  looked  at  her  again.  She  was 
clad  in  biscuit-coloured  silk,  which  made  her 
black  hair  look  blacker,  her  soft  skin  more  ut- 
terly white.  Her  lips  were  tinted  to  a  faint  shade 
of  the  same  scarlet  as  the  flowers  he  had  given 
her.  She  was  tasting  olives,  daintily, — they  hap- 
pened to  be  hard  to  procure.  The  amber-tinted 
wine  in  her  glass  was  costly  also. 


36  MADAM 

"Why,"  asked  Erith,  "should  he  turn  on  me? 
I've  done  my  duty." 

"Were  you  in  uniform?  Perhaps  he  barred 
that." 

"Nichol!"  Round  were  her  grey  eyes.  "Do 
you  mean  they  think  women  oughtn't? — boys  like 
that?  Or  do  you  mean  a  sort  of  jealousy?" 

Glover  laughed.  When  she  asked  why  he 
laughed,  he  shook  his  head,  putting  her  off.  "I 
daresay,"  he  said,  comforting,  "he  was  a  beast  of 


a  man." 


"But  he  wasn't,"  said  Erith.  "He  wanted — 
punishing,  I  thought.  I  hated  him  rather, — but 
I  didn't  despise  him  as  I  would  a  beast.  He  had 
been  ragging  a  policeman,  and  I  daresay  might 
get  himself  a  month's  hard.  That's  what  I 
should  really  like.  When  he  came  out,  he  might 
be  quite  nice  to  talk  to,  in  his  place, — and  clev- 
erer than  you." 

"Oh,"  said  Nichol.  He  ate  for  a  time.  "But 
look  here,  Erith :  why  punish,  suppose  it's  pun- 
ishing made  him  what  he  is?" 

"Because  when  people  are  nasty,  they  must  be 
punished,"  said  Erith,  wilfully.  "And  it  may  be 
spoiling  made  him  what  he  is, — much  more  like- 
ly. How  can  you  know?" 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  37 

"I  couldn't,  without  seeing  him,"  said  Nichol. 
"I  don't  think  many  people  in  the  world  are  suf- 
fering from  spoiling,  though,"  he  added. 

"Aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  might  be." 

"Nichol,  you  are  funny,  agreeing  like  that! 
That's  rather  quick  of  you.  I'll  tell  you  someone 
who  is  spoilt, — Henry." 

"God! — Excuse  me,  Erith:  you  were  joking." 

"I  wasn't.  You  were  swearing.  Nichol,  lis- 
ten: do  you  think  Henry  is  jealous  of  you?" 

Glover  said  nothing,  though  he  seemed  to  be 
groping  for  an  answer. 

"Do  you  think  I  was  unkind?"  She  looked  her 
sweetest. 

"No,  no."  He  was  troubled.  "You  are  too 
kind,  to  all  of  us." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  doing  what's  best  for  my- 
self?" 

"Good  Lord,  no,"  said  Nichol,  recovering. 
"I'm  not  going  to  let  you  stop  forgetting  yourself, 
though,  at  present,  Erith.  Not  till  May." 

"All  right.  You  mean  to  chivy  me  in  some- 
how, don't  you?  Look  out!" 

"I'm  looking,"  said  Glover,  confidently.  "I've 
taken  note  of  the  last  man." 


38  MADAM 

After  a  long  pause —  "What  do  you  mean?" 
said  Erith,  coldly.  He  ceased  smiling,  and  asked 
her  pardon  in  haste:  which  was  the  least  a  man 
and  a  lover  could  do. 


V. 

"I'D  look  after  that  gentleman-friend  of  yours," 
said  Lu  suddenly,  at  supper.  "He's  taking  to 
bad  ways." 

"Lucy!"  exclaimed  her  father;  and  her 
mother,  a  pretty  woman,  turned  pale. 

The  idea  of  her  elder  daughter  with  a  gentle- 
man-friend unknown  to  her,  was  enough  to  shake 
Mrs.  Astley,  who,  since  she  hung  upon  Lina  at 
all  times,  thought  she  was  deep  in  her  confidence. 
To  have  little  Lu  knowing  and  talking  about 
"bad  ways"  was  still  worse:  she  could  not  im- 
agine how  such  a  condition  of  things  had  oc- 
curred. 

Mrs.  Astley  was  very  attractive,  because  she 
always  imagined,  for  others,  the  best  and  hap- 
piest things.  It  led  of  course,  frequently,  to  her 
complete  delusion:  yet  that  hardly  mattered, 
since  she  was  more  contented  so.  For  instance, 
when  Lina  became  secretary  to  a  master-sur- 
geon, and  spent  long  days  away  from  her,  she  set 
to  work  and  evolved  a  kind  of  intimate  convic- 
tion, improved  by  not  seeing  Mr.  Forrest,  that 

39 


40  MADAM 

he  was  "nice."  She  was  sure  things  must  be  very 
happy  for  Lina,  because  she  was  such  a  dear  girl. 
In  the  same  way,  Lu  must  be  living  in  a  kind  of 
cherubs'  Paradise  at  the  City  Hospital,  because 
she  was  Lucy,  and  had  such  pretty  curly  hair. 
As  though  anyone  could  be  less  than  perfect  to 
her  Lucy! 

This  being  the  way  her  mother's  mind  worked, 
Lu's  strong  desire  to  throw  bombs  was  perfectly 
comprehensible.  To  have  one's  parents  believ- 
ing that  one  is  living  in  a  cherubs'  paradise,  in 
war-time,  at  the  age  of  nineteen — so  she  threw 
one :  at  Lina. 

"What  friend?"  said  Lina. 

"Mister  Lancaster,"  said  Lu,  emphasising  the 
first  word.  "He's  a  fair  caution,  the  way  he  goes 
on.  I  saw  him  at  the  pictures  with  somebody, — 
well,  she  was  old  enough  to  be  his  mother,  to 
begin  with, — and  painted, — and  scent, — sicken- 
ing!" 

"Did  he  see  you?"  said  Miss  Astley. 

"I  hardly  know:  he  may  have."  She  bridled. 

"Who  were  you  with  ?"  It  was  her  father,  this 
time. 

"There  were  a  lot  of  us,"  said  Lu:  meaning 
girls. 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  41 

"I  wish  you  had  all  come  away  at  once,"  said 
Mrs.  Astley:  getting  an  impression  of  a  bevy  of 
Lus  in  danger. 

"Oh,  Mother!  As  if  you  can't  go  to  the  pic- 
tures! However,"  proceeded  Lu,  "if  you  think 
I  would  be  seen  with  him  again,  after  such  an 
exhibition— now  I'll  tell  you,  Father!  This  is 
as  true  as  I  live." 

"Go  on,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Astley,  flattered 
by  notice.  He  added,  seeing  his  wife's  face, — 
"If  you  must." 

"I  couldn't  have  believed  my  eyes,"  said  Lucy. 
"He  sat  down,  through  'God  save  the  King,'  with 
his  hand  over  his  face,  and  of  course  everybody 
thought  he  was  wounded.  I  did  myself,  for  a 
minute, — I  mean,  you  could  hardly  think  any- 
thing worse  without  evidence, — could  you? 
Then,  just  at  the  last  line,  he  got  up,  and  limped 
most  awfully,  right  along  the  line,  going  out. 
Then, — really  I'm  ashamed — " 

"Don't,  darling," — from  Mrs.  Astley. 

"He  leant  his  hand  on  a  chair,  and  leapt  right 
over  it,  feet  together,  like  a — like  a — well,  a  flea 
is  the  only  thing  I  can  think  of.  And  out  he 
pranced,  as  happy  as  you  please,  everybody  gap- 
ing, and  the  creature  in  fits." 


42  MADAM 

"Your  father,"  said  Mrs.  Astley  wondering, 
"seems  amused." 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Astley.  "Who  is  this  ath- 
lete? A  friend  of  Lina's,  did  you  say?"  He 
lifted  a  humorous  eyebrow  at  Lina:  about 
whom,  of  course,  he  was  not  going  to  believe  any- 
thing, on  Lu's  evidence;  although,  like  every- 
one, he  spoilt  Lu. 

"I  don't  know  him  the  least,"  said  Miss  Astley, 
rather  pale.  "I'm  afraid  he  must  be  a  Socialist, 
Father." 

"It  looks  like  it,"  said  Mr.  Astley. 

"I  never  noticed  a  tie,"  said  Lu,  pensive. 
"Still,  of  course,  if  he  is,  it  accounts  for  the  girl 
and  everything."  She  arose.  "Well,  all  I  hope 
is,"  said  Lu  to  the  table,  "I  may  never  have  the 
pleasure  of  his  company  again."  She  set  her 
chair  with  precision,  and  departed,  effectively. 

Really,  Lina  hoped  so  too.  She  was  deeply 
distressed.  Mousie  had  pulled  a  string  of  her  at 
first  meeting:  but  now  other  strings,  well  rooted, 
were  jarring  discordantly.  She  allowed  for  the 
strength  of  her  spoiled  sister's  colouring  in  the 
tale,  instinctively;  but  the  woman  and  the  scent 
and  the  Socialism  were  all  there,  terrible  things 
to  one  of  Miss  Astley's  upbringing.  There  was 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  43 

a  ribald  touch  in  this  latest  story,  which  reached 
her  the  more  as  she  thought  it  over;  to  scout 
Majesty,  to  ape  the  wounded,  to  leap  "like  a 
flea"  over  a  chair,  amid  bad  women's  laughter, — 
how  could  he?  How  could  Mousie? — he  must 
have  been  drunk.  And  to  have  him  look  at  Lu 
into  the  bargain, — their  Lu! — 'for  of  course  he 
had  done  so. 

"Did  he  speak  to  you?"  she  said  later:  as  sis- 
ter bound. 

Lu  coloured.  "He  said — 'And  how's  Mad- 
am?' I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  he  meant." 

"You  didn't  answer,  of  course." 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

But  the  girl  had:  for  eyes  had  answered,  and 
pretty  bridling  lips.  She  had  not  really,  as  she 
implied,  discouraged  Mousie.  She  admired  him 
far  too  much. 


VI 

FOOTE,  Lu's  former  acquaintance  at  the  hospital, 
was  now  discharged  from  medical  care,  though 
still  unfit  for  service.  He  was  seeking  some 
work  in  London,  aided  by  a  certain  "Eric," 
whose  name  Lucy  had  heard  that  day  in  the 
Park.  Eric  was  one  of  the  lucky  ones,  she  was 
told,  who  had  made  pots  of  money  in  a  pleasant 
job  of  army  horse-dealing,  but  who  yet  deigned 
to  call  Foote  "friend."  Eric  called  Lancaster 
"friend"  also ;  but  despite  Euclid's  vaunted  max- 
ims, Foote  knew  little  or  nothing  of  Lancaster. 
He  could  not  say  where  the  "Mouse"  was  work- 
ing or  training,  beyond  that  it  was  in  the  London 
area.  He  talked  of  his  feats  on  holiday,  as  re- 
lated by  Eric, — that  is,  when  Lu  encouraged 
him.  Foote  would  have  done  almost  anything  in 
the  world,  at  this  period,  in  order  to  win  a  smile 
from  Lu. 

Lu  kept  all  these  facts  in  her  neat  little  mind, 
not  excepting  the  last  one,  amid  various  inter- 
vening duties  at  the  City  Hospital.  What  she 
noted  especially  was  that  Foote-Eric-Mousie, 

44 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  45 

as  it  were,  completed  a  chain,  of  which  she,  in 
amiable  Foote,  held  one  extremity.  It  is  a  won- 
derful spur  to  dull  and  rather  degrading  work 
to  have  glittering  chains,  such  as  Foote-Eric- 
Mousie,  festooning  your  week's  end;  it  is  even 
better  than  Patriotism,  which  is  supposed  to  hold 
you  up. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  go  to  these  Labour  Meet- 
ings," said  Lu,  on  a  Saturday,  passing  a  poster 
near  the  Albert  Hall.  Foote  was  her  companion 
that  afternoon,  and  the  remark  fell  naturally. 

"Not  me! — not  to  say  specially.  Lancaster 
does."  Foote  fell  into  the  trap  at  once.  He  was 
simply  the  most  easily  manipulated  material 
Miss  Lu  had  ever  met.  It  was  the  principal 
thing  against  him,  indeed,  for  her  light  wits 
loved  practice. 

"What  does  he  go  for?    Fun?" 

"Oh,  what  does  he  do  anything  for?"  said 
Foote,  cautious.  "He'll  get  himself  lagged,  some 
day,  lays  himself  out  for  it.  Those  lads  don't  go 
fast  enough,  not  for  him." 

"Which?" 

Foote  nodded  towards  the  poster.  "So  Eric 
says.  Eric  doesn't  encourage  him,  not  in  that 
line,"  he  added. 


46  MADAM 

"What's  the  point  of  it?"  said  Lu,  disapprov- 
ing Labour. 

"Ah,"  said  Foote,  with  a  wag  of  head:  ap- 
proving her  attitude. 

"You  don't  see  girls  there,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  some.  Not  many  like  you."  This  was 
flattery. 

"I'd  like  to  talk  to  him,"  said  Lu,  thoughtful. 
As  Churchwoman  and  patriot,  she  meant,  she 
would  like  to  talk  to  Mousie.  Foote  took  her 
right. 

"He'd  not  have  many  of  your  sort  interested," 
he  said  vaguely.  Lu  was  serious,  for  a  time. 

"You  mean  he  knows — others?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  Take  care,  sister." 
They  crossed  the  road. 

"Now  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Lu.  "I  did  see  him 
with  somebody  once, — I  couldn't  believe  it.  I'd 
not  mention  it,  but  for  your  speaking  of  this." 

That  was  perfectly  understood,  by  Foote.  He 
made  a  vast  effort,  with  his  whole  being,  to  rise 
to  little  "sister's"  needs. 

"It's  as  though  there  were  layers,"  he  said.  Lu 
nodded,  though  she  did  not  the  least  understand 
what  he  meant.  "Some's  bad,  some  aren't,"  he 
proceeded;  and  she  began  to  look  grave.  "That 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  47 

was  his  brother's  girl,  Eric  says,"  proceeded  the 
ill-fated  Foote.  He  coloured.  "She's  fond  of 
him, — you  know  that  will  happen— 

"I  think,"  said  Lucy,  "I  had  better  leave  you 
now.  Good  afternoon." 

She  spoke  brightly,  looking  him  in  the  eyes  as 
she  shook  hands:  Foote  was  terribly  cast  down. 
They  were  kittle  cattle,  these  young  "sisters,"  to 
deal  with;  looking  pretty,  sympathetic  and  con- 
descending, they  would  suddenly  shoot  up,  and 
advance  the  womanly  right  arm.  "Thus  far — !" 
Foote,  no  hand  at  his  native  language,  and  addi- 
tionally weak  with  admiring  Lucy  (at  a  rapid 
rate  of  increase)  was  reproved. 

"I  meant  nothing — "  That  was  how  he  should 
have  started  again,  but  he  never  got  it  out.  It 
was  a  facer  for  him,  to  begin  with,  her  interest  in 
another:  for  of  course  she  did  not  deceive  him; 
men  in  love,  in  these  matters,  are  not  so  easily 
deceived.  On  the  other  hand,  Foote  himself  was 
interested,  all  but  fascinated,  by  the  "kid"  Lan- 
caster,— for,  leader  though  he  appeared,  Mousie 
was  younger  than  either  Foote  or  Eric,  who  had 
been  his  brother's  friend.  Foote  held  certain 
hints  on  the  case  from  Eric,  which,  stagger- 
ing, yet  had  to  be  believed.  A  man,  dealing  with 


48  MADAM 

a  girl,  could  hardly  lay  tongue  to  Mousie's  trag- 
edy, such  as  it  was  whispered  among  them. 
Wiseacres  "in  the  know,"  like  Poote,  watched  his 
doings  daily,  almost  as  those  of  a  lost  soul. 

There  were  other  ideas  adrift,  needless  to  say, 
connected  with  the  person  Lu  had  noticed  with 
him  at  the  pictures:  but  none  that  Foote  could 
begin  to  sketch  to  a  girl  of  Lucy's  sort.  They 
were  all  of  the  matter  of  life,  of  the  nature  of 
elemental  man  and  woman.  One  did  not  need 
to  talk  of  those,  as  daily,  in  this  new-old  world  of 
London,  one  felt  them  there. 


VII 

PEACE  came, — so-called  peace :  it  was  arriving. 
Colonel  and  Miss  Wicken,  both  now  rather  de- 
crepit, came  to  town. 

Henry  was  dragged  up  too,  because  they  told 
one  another,  he  was  growing  shy  and  "odd." 
Proud  was  what  Henry  was,  really:  he  shrank 
in  spirit  from  meeting  his  old  friends.  He  could 
not  bear  pity :  and  a  man  with  his  health  wrecked 
and  a  useless  hand,  and  that  his  right,  could 
hardly  avoid  it  in  society:  especially  a  musical 
man.  In  the  country  he  could  read,  and  romance 
(he  loved  talking)  and  ride, — granted  the  picked 
person  to  ride  with.  The  Colonel,  robust  him- 
self till  lately,  and  stiff  with  almost  awkward 
horror  at  his  nephew's  fate,  had  given  him  a 
priceless  horse;  but  Henry  often  had  to  let 
others  exercise  it,  for  his  health  and  spirits  were 
up  and  down. 

The  main  consolation  in  being  dragged  up  to 
town,  for  Henry,  was  London:  not  the  popula- 
tion, but  the  place.  He  had  a  theory  of  London, 
passionately  elaborated  at  intervals,  that  it  was 

49 


50  MADAM 

the  sweetest,  maddest,  most  elf-like  and  elusive 
little  city  that  ever  fairy-tale  had  invented,  or 
troubadour  hymned.  London,  like  Ys,  was  a 
kind  of  legend;  you  could  not  always  (in  a  fog) 
see  that  it  was  there.  London  was  like  Camelot, 
a  haunt  of  heroes.  People,  when  Henry  said  this 
in  war-time,  agreed  with  him  earnestly:  but  he 
thought  he  meant  a  better  sort  of  hero  than  that. 
Something  more  ancient — however,  it  was  not  of 
the  least  use  to  say  so :  so  he  smiled  patriotically, 
and  left  those  people  alone. 

The  second  consolation,  in  coming  to  town, 
was  Nichol.  Nichol  and  he  were  old-time  com- 
rades, and  had  no  more  need  of  mutual  study  and 
consideration  than  brothers  have.  There  was 
Erith,  of  course:  but  not  between  them.  Further 
than  this,  there  was  Nichol's  nature,  known.  He 
was  a  simpler  soul  than  Henry,  and  had  more 
fixed  prejudices,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
He  was  unmusical,  and  devout.  Further,  he  was 
fat,  rather:  and  worse  since  the  war;  but  Henry 
knew  about  all  these  drawbacks.  As  a  rider,  for 
all  his  weight,  he  trusted  Nichol :  and  he  let  him 
exercise  Titus,  the  horse. 

Now  Titus,  like  many  people,  had  taken  to 
Henry.  He  did  not  much  care  for  Nichol's 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  51 

cavalry-seat  instead.  He  would  sooner  (he  told 
the  next  horse,  Erith's)  have  waited  a  while,  till 
his  man  felt  like  a  joy-ride  again:  twelve-stone 
professional  handling  made  him  nervous.  He 
could  not  answer,  Titus  said  to  Amabel  (Erith's 
horse)  for  what  would  happen  if  it  went  on:  and 
he  whisked  his  tail,  whimsically. 

The  result  was,  one  fine  morning, — for  Nichol, 
by  early  rising,  was  trying  to  reduce  his  weight, 
— a  long  step-dance,  on  Titus'  part,  on  a  freshly 
gravelled  avenue  in  the  Park,  with  Nichol  and  a 
steam-roller  acting  as  assistants  in  the  ballet,  and 
Titus  in  the  premier  role.  Nichol  controlled  a 
little  too  much,  the  steam-roller,  for  its  part,  was 
too  expansive.  At  the  critical  moment,  Erith 
uttered  a  little  shriek  of  laughter,  a  mistake  of 
hers :  and  the  steam-roller,  which  had  been  pant- 
ing shyly  for  its  entree,  emitted,  from  the  depths 
of  its  individuality,  a  cough. 

"Howk!"  said  the  steam-roller.  "Huck, 
huck!" 

"Would  you?"  said  Nichol. 

"Sorry,"  said  Titus.  "That  pudding  is  really 
too  tempting," — and  Nichol  lay  prone  on  the 
mushy  yellow  ground. 

There  was  confusion,  after  that,  for  a  time; 


52  MADAM 

but  luckily  the  hour  was  early,  and  London  the 
laziest  town  on  earth. 

"Where's  Titus?"  said  Henry,  when  they  all 
came  home, — Nichol,  still  very  golden,  in  a  taxi- 
cab,  Erith,  haughty  and  remote,  on  horseback. 

"They'll  get  him,"  said  Nichol,  dreamily. 
"Police  and  so  on, — very  helpful.  How  many 
steps  are  there?" 

"Four,"  said  Henry,  helping  with  his  only 
hand.  "Lie  down,  old  boy.  These  little  sur- 
prises get  you,  afterwards.  I  ought  to  have 
warned  you  that  Titus  was  fresh, — Gates  is  his 

other  name,  you  know Erith,  you  weren't 

frightened?" 

"Oh  no,"  drawled  Erith,  sitting  down.  Henry 
was  breakfasting  alone,  luckily,  after  the  family. 
"I  might  have  foreseen  it  too,  by  Amabel's  gig- 
gling. All  the  way  along,  Titus  was  telling 
Amabel  what  he  meant  to  do,  and  where,  and 
why.  If  girls  didn't  giggle,  men  would  never  do 
these  things.  It's  exactly  like  that  incident  in 
the  shop  I  referred  to,  Nichol.  I  said  that  man 
wanted  punishing.  So  does  Titus, — worse." 

"But  where  is  he?"  said  Henry,  naturally 
curious :  though  he  loved  to  hear  Erith  talk. 

"I  should  say — about  at  Hampstead,  by  this 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  53 

time.  It  all  depends  where  the  man  who  caught 
him  likes  to  stop  him,  you  know." 

"It  doesn't  the  least  depend  on  that,"  mur- 
mured Nichol,  whose  hand  was  over  his  face. 

"He  was  caught,  then,"  said  Henry,  naturally 
relieved. 

Erith  nodded  gravely.  "Rather  well,  I  think: 
and  mounted.  In  the  soft  spring  vistas  of  the 
Park  we  saw  it  all  occur.  And  the  man  who 
mounted  waved  his  arm  to  us.  Only,  instead  of 
riding  Titus  to  us,  as  you  would  have  expected, 
he  rode  the  other  way." 

"Could  you  see  who  he  was?"  said  Henry: 
thinking  over  all  his  acquaintance,  and  their  hu- 
morous ways. 

"No.  He  might  possibly  have  thought  we 
were  in  the  other  direction ;  because  Titus,  when 
caught,  was  waltzing  ably — " 

"He  really  should  be  warned,"  murmured 
Nichol,  "it's  out  of  date."  , 

"Hush,"  said  Henry.  "Erith,  you  interest  me 
extremely.  Where  is  the  man,  then, — the  clever 
fellow  who  caught  my  horse?" 

"Harrow?"  hazarded  Erith.  Then  she  broke 
down.  "Oh,  oh,  oh,— that  policeman's  facel 


54  MADAM 

And  the  roller-man, — not  the  engineer,  but  the 
one  who  makes  the  puddings!  Poor  Henry!" 

Henry  smiled  too :  but  it  was  serious,  for  him. 
He  said  that  London,  larky  always,  had  evidently 
not  been  caught  napping,  even  at  that  early  hour ; 
arrd  they  must  pretend  that  Titus  had  died,  tem- 
porarily; but  wits  as  they  were,  they  could  not 
long  disguise  the  facts.  Also,  Nichol,  when  he 
recovered,  came  to  life  serious  about  it, — very. 

They  went  into  it,  with  the  policeman. 

The  policeman,  most  active  and  interested, 
called  about  twelve  o'clock.  The  steam-roller 
man,  and  the  municipal  authorities,  wanted  rea- 
son given  for  the  hole  Nichol  had  made  in  the 
freshly-puddled  road.  The  long  step-dance, 
also,  had  mixed  things.  Further  than  this,  there 
was  the  question  of  the  gentleman's  horse — oh, 
certainly!  But  that  would  soon  be  settled,  being 
a  joke — 

"A  joke?"  said  Henry.  "No  joke  to  me,  of- 
ficer. I'm  out  of  pocket,  at  present,  to  the  tune 
of  five  hundred  pounds." 

"Indeed,  sir.  Indeed.  It  wasn't  one  of  the 
gentleman's  friends  as  was  having  a  little—" 

"No,"  said  Henry.    "That  is,  I  think  not." 

"I  think  not/'  said  Nichol,  more  earnestly. 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  55 

"He  has  no  friends  like  that,"  said  Erith. 

"If  we  could  have  been  certain  of  that,  Miss, 
— he  mounted  so  helpful  and  so  ready — " 

"Exactly,"  said  Henry.  "Your  hesitation,  and 
that  of  the  public  in  the  park,  was  natural.  It 
must  have  looked  as  though  the  young  man — was 
he  young? — was  trying  hard  to  help  somebody. 
The  question  is,  who?" 

"Whom?"  corrected  Erith.  They  all  gazed 
at  the  police-officer.  Suddenly,  the  noble  official 
gave  way. 

"Well,  I  am — Do  you  take  him  for  a — " 

"Case?  Certainly.  We  are  bound  to,  until  he 
turns  out  to  be  Captain  Glover's  oldest  friend. 
Or  mine.  But  even  viewed  as  a  friendly  act,  it 
looks  oddly.  It  was  careless,  I  mean." 

"I  tried  to  let  him  know  where  we  were,"  mur- 
mured Erith.  "Perhaps  the  horse-hoofs — " 

"There  are  queer  fish  about,"  whispered  the 
policeman.  "Sometimes  I  think,  these  days, 
London  is  bewitched." 

"Do  you  really?"  said  Henry.  He  loved  po- 
licemen. Being  London's  henchmen,  something 
of  London's  mystic  charm  was  naturally  cast 
upon  them.  He  was  not  the  least  surprised,  in 


56  MADAM 

consequence,  to  find  this  one  agreeing  with  his 
own  theory :  but  it  filled  him  with  secret  joy. 

However,  after  that,  the  interview  was  official, 
purely;  and,  since  Colonel  Wicken  had  an  ex- 
cellent name  and  standing,  all  went  well. 

"Nichol,"  said  Erith,  when  he  was  quite  clean 
again,  and  they  were  private.  "Don't  bother 
Henry:  but  I  can't  help  thinking  it  is  the  same 


man." 


"What  man?"  said  Nichol.  He  had  to  be  re- 
minded at  length. 

"You  were  riding  with  me,"  explained  Erith. 

"So  I  was;  but  why  quarrel  with  me  for 
that?" 

"He  might  have  known  about  us,  somehow," 
said  Erith.  She  added,  before  he  spoke — "He 
wouldn't  attack  me,  myself.  I  told  you  so.  He 
didn't  before." 

"Too  respectful."  Glover  looked  in  front  of 
him.  One  could  not  love  Erith,  and  not  know 
her  egoism.  If  she  wished  to  persuade  herself 
that  this  was  an  unknown  lover,  playing  pranks, 
she  would  do  so.  But,  not  being  in  the  walk  of 
life  that  visits  cinemas,  Nichol  could  not  per- 
suade himself  it  was  the  least  probable.  Beauti- 


LONDON   IS   BEWITCHED  57 

ful  horseflesh  came  far  too  near  beautiful  woman, 
in  his  own  world,  as  parallel  attractions :  could 
it  not  be  the  former,  that  had  urged  the  stranger's 
performance,  equally  well? 

He  offended  Erith  by  saying  so.  "Titus  is  a 
beauty;  and  it's  clear  the  sweep  knew  about 
that." 

"You  don't  believe  me,  then,"  pouted  Erith. 

"I'll  reckon  it  into  the  chances,"  said  Nichol, 
kindly,  "every  little  helps." 

He  was  deeply  troubled,  of  course,  about 
Titus;  and  presumed  Erith  would  help  him. 
She  was  really  wasting  her  intellect  on  theories, 
such  as  the  above.  It  mattered  not  the  least,  who 
the  man  was:  the  point  was,  to  catch  the 
"sweep,"  and  annex  the  horse.  That  was  all 
Nichol  cared  for,  she  discovered.  She  thought 
him  less  lover-like  than  he  used  to  be:  he  would 
not  even  play  at  jealousy,  now. 


VIII 

HENRY  called,  without  an  appointment,  on  Mr. 
Forrest,  and  Mr.  Forrest  failed  to  appear,  and 
he  sat  some  time,  kicking  his  heels,  in  the  pa- 
tient's parlour  (which  was  his  name) .  It  would 
have  been  dull :  only  his  aunt  kept  ringing  him 
up,  to  know  how  he  was  prospering,  and  what  he 
was  feeling  like;  a  habit,  nowadays,  of  Miss 
Wicken's :  she  thought  it  kind. 

Each  time  Henry  went  to  the  telephone,  in  the 
other  room,  and  said — "No,  he's  not  come  yet,— 
quite  well,  thanks,"  and  things  like  that.  Miss 
Astley,  guessing  the  circumstances  exactly  (only 
guessing,  for  some  reason,  that  it  was  his  fussy 
mother)  thought  his  pleasantness  and  patience 
wonderful,  and  longed  to  help.  The  third  time 
he  hung  the  receiver  up,  he  caught  her  eye. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Miss  Astley.  "I 
could  not  help  hearing,  but  if  it  is  a  consulta- 
tion—" 

"I  should  be  wiser  to  make  an  appointment," 
Henry  supplied.  "I  know  I  should  be, — but  it 
isn't.  My  aunt  thinks  it  is,  since  she  heard  me 

58 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  59 

give  the  cabman  the  fatal  name  of  your  street." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Astley,  smiling  faintly. 
She  prepared  to  return  to  her  work  again.  But 
Henry  did  not  return  to  the  other  room.  Why 
should  he? 

"I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Forrest,"  he  said,  "to  ask 
him  a  question, — an  absolutely  lay  question,  since 
he  is  the  only  surgeon  I  ever  met  in  society.  I 
met  him  at  Ashwin's,  opposite.  The  question, 
for  my  own  man,  would  be  too  silly,  and  might 
be  offensive.  Ashwin,  if  he  were  in  London, 
would  answer  it;  but  as  he  isn't,  your  man  comes 
up  in  my  mind." 

"Dr.  Ashwin  is  very  helpful,"  said  Miss  Ast- 
ley, thinking  of  the  French  dilemmas. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  The  girl  bowed. 
Down  sat  Henry  on  the  table.  "He's  a  queer 
man, — I  never  knew  a  doctor  so  little  doctorial. 
Except,  no  doubt,  Mr.  Forrest,  who  struck  me  as 
the  same  make." 

"Oh,"  said  Miss  Astley,  "but  you  saw  him 
with  Dr.  Ashwin.  It  makes  a  difference."  She 
looked  faintly  mischievous.  It  struck  Henry  she 
was  a  nice  girl, — and  London  personified. 

"Ah,"  he  said.  "Friends."  He  thought  for  a 
time,  and  then  jumped  at  her,  in  his  nervous  way. 


60  MADAM 

"Then  Forrest's  doctorial  and  daunting,  is  he?" 

"Some  people  find  him  so." 

"Fate.  Then  I  simply  can't  ask  him  my  silly 
question.  I  was  a  fool  to  come,"  said  Henry, 
gloomy. 

"Is  it,"  asked  Miss  Astley,  "about  your  hand?" 

"It's  connected  with  it,"  said  Henry,  his  colour 
changing.  He  really  had  hoped,  this  time,  his 
useless  state  had  not  been  perceived. 

"Then  I  think  you  may.  I  mean,  he's  not  a 
surgeon  only,  he's  a  scientist.  A  savant — "  She 
blushed  at  the  French  word. 

"Say  a  scholar,  it's  so  nice,"  said  Henry.  "I'm 
afraid  I'm  disturbing  you  Miss — Astley."  She 
supplied,  and  he  repeated  it.  "It's  awfully  kind 
of  you  to  reassure  me.  Even  when  you're  not 
going  under  ether,  there's  a  something-or-other 
about  a  surgeon's  room." 

"You  know  them,"  thought  Miss  Astley,  look- 
ing at  his  pale  face.  She  had  less  scruple,  at 
once,  about  keeping  him  from  returning  to  the 
patient's  parlour.  The  concentrated  essence  of 
agony  and  anxiety  haunted  it, — he  was  better 
here.  "We  had  a  young  man  here  the  other 
day,"  she  said,  settling  her  typewriter-carriage 
with  one  pretty  hand,  "who  came  like  you  to  ask 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  61 

a  question:  whether  he  might  have  a  perfectly 
sound  arm,  of  which  he  had  lost  the  use  of  four 
fingers,  cut  off." 

"Cut  off?"  said  Henry. 

"Yes :  and  an  artificial  one  substituted.  They 
make  artificial  hands  so  well." 

"What  was  he?"  said  Henry. 

"Something  in  the  country, — a  bee-keeper,  I 
believe." 

"A  bee-keeper?"  Long  interval.  "Have  you 
a  notion,  Miss  Astley,  what  bee-keepers  have  to 
do?" 

"No,  Mr.— Wicken."  He  supplied,  and  she 
repeated  it. 

"Why  do  we  not  know  these  things?"  said 
Henry,  very  absent.  Suddenly  with  a  jump  he 
said — "I  suppose  the  surgeon  refused." 

"Yes.  But  kindly.  For  Mr.  Forrest,  he  was 
extremely  kind." 

"Because  he  was  sorry  for  the  man." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Astley  rather  slowly.  "He 
was  too  kind  for  that.  When  Mr.  Forrest  is 
sorry  he  is  rough,  as  a  rule:  rough  in  manner." 

"Oh,"  said  Henry.  He  took  an  observation  of 
Miss  Astley,  so  answering  him.  Was  she  sorry 
for  him?  He  suspected  it.  "Why  was  Mr.  For- 


62  MADAM 

rest  kind  to  the  bee-keeper?  Because  he  wanted 
a  comb?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wicken  I"  The  demure  girl  smiled. 
"No :  because  he  thought  the  idea  showed  clev- 
erness, and  so  on.  Courage, — he  must  have 
thought  it  out." 

"Nights,"  said  Henry.  "And  having  thought 
— went  ahead — and  is  doing  so — combing  with  a 
single  prong, — or  two,  was  it?"  After  a  very 
long  pause,  pondering,  he  got  up.  "I  don't  think 
I'll  wait,  Miss  Astley.  I  was  an  ass  to  come." 

"Would  you  like  an  appointment?" 

"No.  I'll — er — write  to  him.  Perhaps  you 
will  tell  him,"  added  Henry,  seeing  her  enquir- 
ing face,  "nothing  at  all." 

Miss  Astley,  much  surprised  by  him,  was  left 
standing:  for  she  did  not  see  single  gentlemen 
out, — her  code  was  otherwise.  Henry  left  the 
house:  and  the  telephone-bell  rang  about  ten 
minutes  after  his  departure. 

"That  will  be  the  aunt,"  thought  Miss  Astley, 
going  to  the  receiver;  but  it  was  not  the  aunt,  it 
was  Henry. 

Sorry  to  disturb  her,  Henry  was :  but  would 
she  give  him  the  address  of  that  bee-keeper? 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  63 

"Who  the  DEVIL,"  said  Mr.  Forrest,  fright- 
fully loud,  considering  the  new  "girl,"  "is  Henry 
Wicken?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Miss  Astley.  She 
looked  at  the  cable  he  passed  her, — "See  Henry 
Wicken,"  it  said.  She  knew  by  the  signature,  if 
she  had  not  already  known  by  Mr.  Forrest's  vio- 
lence, that  it  was  from  Dr.  Ashwin,  in  Egypt. 

"A  gentleman  of  that  name  called,"  said  Miss 
Astley,  "hoping  to  see  you,  but  he  left  no  mes- 
sage. He  said  he  had  a  question  to  ask." 

"Why  the — er,  why  did  he  not  make  an  ap- 
pointment?" said  Mr.  Forrest,  and  went  on,  by 
degrees :  "Were  you  there?  Who  are  they?  Do 
I  know  them?  Has  he  seen  me?  Why  has  he 
never  written,  then?" 

"Perhaps  he  found  he  wasn't  able.  His 
hand—" 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Forrest,  calm  and  surgical. 
"Well,  I'll  write  to  him."  He  immediately  dic- 
tated a  perfectly  polite  letter  in  ten  words;  and 
Miss  Astley  was  secure  Henry's  silly  question,  if 
it  should  be  asked,  would  be  asked  in  complete 
privacy,  and  the  most  comfortable  conditions. 
She  could  not  help  being  pleased,  for  Henry; 


64  MADAM 

though  she  very  much  wondered,  granted  two 
such  "sudden"  people,  what  would  come  of  it. 

Harmony  came  of  it:  Henry  came  also,  to 
lunch:  and  there  also  came,  by  degrees,  as  ac- 
quaintance improved,  the  story  of  the  horse, 
Titus.  Henry  was  now  telling  Titus,  regularly: 
and  he  was  told  to  Mr.  Forrest  in  expert  style. 

Mr.  Forrest,  being  asked  to  trace  a  moral  to 
Titus,  said,  he  would  have  thought  the  moral 
was,  ride  your  animals  yourself. 

"But  Glover's  a  better  rider  than  I  am,"  said 
Henry.  "I  could  hardly  have  escaped  his  fate." 
This  assured  the  surgeon  that  Henry  was  riding, 
which  was  what  he  wanted, — one  of  the  things. 

"I  suppose  you  like  your  horses  to  get  the  bet- 
ter of  you,  nowadays.  Shows  spirit  in  the  brutes, 
— initiative, — just  as  in  the  'bus-men  to  come 
out." 

"Or  in  the  patients  to  kick,"  said  Henry.  "I 
never  aspired  to  master  Titus :  I  hoped  to  be  his 
best  pal.  But  that's  enough  of  me:  can't  you 
give  me  a  diagnosis  of  the  other  man?  I  had  ex- 
pected great  things  of  you." 

"Why?"  said  Mr.  Forrest:  who  had  no  hope 
now  of  getting  Henry's  real  question,  his  first: 
so  he  listened  to  others. 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  65 

"Because  I  thought  there  must  be  a  theory  of 
him,  up  to  date." 

"What,  a  criminal?    They're  always  with  us." 

"Now,  more  than  usual?"  hinted  Henry. 
"Any  special  sort?  I  merely  ask,"  he  proceeded, 
"because  when  I  tell  Titus  to  people,  as  I  have 
now  done  for  days,  neither  he,  nor  I,  nor  Glover, 
succeed  in  being  the  hero:  that  is  always  the 
other  man:  for  women  especially." 

"I  thought  you  meant  women,"  gloomed  Mr. 
Forrest.  "Society  women,  eh?  Languishers." 

"Not  languishes,"  said  Henry.  "Strong- 
minded  landwomen,  and  earnest  elderly  agita- 
tors,—" 

"Lord,"  said  Mr.  Forrest,  frightened,  "what 
are  landwomen?" 

"The  deep-diggers,"  said  Henry.  "The 
trenchers  and  ploughers  and  inspectors  of  asy- 
lums,— all  that  sort.  They  pretend  to  be  severe, 
through  their  spectacles.  They  plan  retribution 
for  him  according  to  the  latest  ladies'  fashions  in 
Penal  Reform ;  but  they  all  want  to  meet  the  lad, 
— a  tete-a-tete." 

"Secret  languishes,"  said  Mr.  Forrest,  more 
gloomily  still.  "Oh,  the  land's  rotten  with  ro- 
manucism.  So's  America,  worse." 


66  MADAM 

"So  was  Germany,  worst  of  all,"  said  Henry. 
"But  we  have  cured  her."  He  hoped  for  an  ex- 
plosion from  Mr.  Forrest,  who  had  lately  been 
in  Germany,  but  nothing  came. 

"There  are  few  women  of  balance,"  he  an- 
nounced. 

"There  are  lots!"  said  Henry  hotly.  He 
calmed.  "Your  young  lady  downstairs,  now, 
Miss — er — " 

"Astley,"  said  Mr.  Forrest.  "Sit  still,  now. 
Don't  you  go  disturbing  her  mind.  Not  that  you 
would  manage  it." 

"Do  you  mean  you  would  trust  her  opinion? 
Truly?  Do  you  mean  she  does  not  go  on  Satur- 
day to  see  the  latest  play  called  the  'Beloved 
Burglar/  or  the  'Back  Staircase  passes  by'?" 

"I  believe  she  goes,  and  sits  it  out,  and  says  it 
is  rubbish  afterwards." 

"I  bet  you  she  couldn't  stand  Titus!"  cried 
Henry.  "I  say, — have  her  up!" 

Mr.  Forrest  would  not :  he  would  not  think  of 
it:  he  said  it  was  a  bad  principle.  Besides,  he 
added  presently,  the  girl  was  at  lunch. 

"Where  does  Miss  Astley  lunch?"  said 
Henry,  when  he  was  shaking  hands. 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  67 

"Where  you'd  expect,"  said  Mr.  Forrest. 
"Have  you  seen  her?"  He  seemed  suspicious. 

"I  have.  I  saw  her  when  I  called  the  other 
day, — wasted  her  time."  He  and  Mr.  Forrest 
looked  at  one  another,  hard.  "I  don't  propose  to 
deprive  you  of  her, — merely  to  tell  her  a  story." 

"Now  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Mr.  Forrest, 
hands  on  hips,  a  hospital  attitude.  "Girls  like 
that  have  story  enough  on  their  persons,  or  at 
home.  There's  penny-plain  in  the  world,  Mr. 
Henry  Wicken,  and  there's  two-pence  coloured, 
— she's  penny-plain.  Those  people  are  making 
the  romances,  as  a  rule,  that  others  read  and  gas 
about.  My  hospitals  are  full  of  penny-plain: 
and  any  of  their  tales,  told  straight,  would  knock 
your  gentleman-adventurers  and  five-hundred- 
pound  horses  all  to  rags.  I  don't  believe  there's 
a  grain  of  real  stuff  even  in  the  facts  of  your  story, 
— not  a  grain." 

"'In  my  story,  as  told  by  me,  still  less,"  said 
Henry,  sadly.  But  he  was  looking  curiously  at 
Mr.  Forrest. 

"In  your  story,  as  told  by  you,  still  less." 

"I'll  prove  you  wrong,"  cried  Henry,  pointing 
a  finger  (left-hand)  at  Mr.  Forrest,  "and  I'll 


68  MADAM 

make  you  say  so !  There  are  elements  in  my  story 
of  interest.  Permanent!" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Forrest,  quite  calm,  when  he 
had  gone,  "there's  you." 

For  he  found  Henry's  case  (in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  Ashwin  recommended  it)  interesting.  He 
had  no  objection,  for  once,  to  keeping  such  a  case 
talking, — even  talking  with  his  young  lady  Miss 
Astley,  if  he  could  find  her, — it  did  them  good. 


IX 

HENRY  did  not  find  Miss  Astley,  in  any  of  the 
penny-plain  restaurants,  into  which  he  looked. 
He  was  sure  he  would  know  her  hat,  if  it  were 
there,  even  though  he  had  not  seen  her  in  it;  but 
no  such  hat  appeared.  It  depressed  him  a  little, 
because  he  longed  to  see  her  again,  and  tell  her 
Titus.  There  was  nothing  particular  in  her,  of 
course;  but  the  world  had  been  all  right,  for  a 
time,  while  he  talked  to  her,  instead  of  a  little 
askew:  instead  of  giving  you  that  frightening 
just-out  sense  of  a  face  in  a  fever,  or  a  room  in  an 
earthquake,  when  all  the  objects  lean  a  trifle  the 
wrong  way.  Girls  like  Miss  Astley  made  him 
feel  less  giddy,  put  it  that  way.  It  might  be 
either  her  despatch-case,  or  her  voice. 

But  as  for  Mr.  Forrest's  theory  of  a  non- 
romantic  or  penny-plain  exterior  to  London, — 
Henry's  London — that  was  knocked  utterly  out 
the  same  afternoon.  It  simply  was  not  so :  Lon- 
don, in  the  larky  season,  was  standing  on  its  head. 
Not  giddily  either:  quite  in  another  scheme  of 
things.  It  was  doing  it  amusingly,  like  Titus. 

69 


TO  MADAM 

Henry  came  home,  after  an  interlude  with 
friends,  to  dinner;  and  he  found  his  aunt,  Miss 
Wicken,  in  an  unusually  expansive  mood;  she 
was  one  of  the  mild  and  retiring  people,  gen- 
erally. 

She  and  dear  Robert,  it  seemed, — dear  Robert 
was  the  Colonel, — had  been  to  see  dear  Erith's 
wedding-presents,  privately,  in  Kensington 
Square. 

"Really?"  said  Henry.  "Some  jolly  things,  I 
expect." 

Erith's  family  were  very  exquisite,  and  so  was 
the  house  she  lived  in.  She  had  sheaves  of 
friends,  all  of  the  very  finest  taste,  so  Henry's  as- 
sumption was  natural.  Indeed,  Henry  had  seen 
some  examples  of  their  taste,  on  an  earlier  occa- 
sion ;  but  this  somewhat  delicate  coincidence  was 
tided  over  artfully,  for  dear  Henry,  by  his  aunt. 

The  Colonel  (dear  Robert)  had  been  grufT  at 
going;  he  said  bluntly  that  he  had  seen  the 
beastly  things  before.  Miss  Wicken  said  that  to 
send  the  same  twice  would  be  in  execrable  taste. 
Dear  Robert  hinted  that  the  proceeding  they 
celebrated  might  be  execrable  also.  However, 
eventually  he  hobbled  away  with  his  sister,  to  do 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  71 

the  proper  thing,  by  Erith.  He  knew,  really, 
that  it  had  to  be  done. 

"And  we  saw  yours,  dear  Henry,"  said  Miss 
Wicken.  "Too  lovely, — so  wonderfully  well- 
set.  It  was  the  setting  I  loved  even  more  than 
the  lovely,  lovely — and  fancy!  Earrings!  How 
naughty!" 

"She's  one  of  the  few  girls  earbobs  really 
suit,"  said  Henry.  "I  know  she  has  been  hanker- 
ing for  ages,  but  hanging  fire,  because  she 
thought  they  might  be  a  little — well,  what  you 
call  naughty,  no  doubt.  Common." 

"Erith  couldn't  look  common,  I  will  say  that 
for  her,"  said  Miss  Wicken.  "Still,  opinion  on 
the  subject  is  certainly  unfixed.  For  I  asked  a 
nice  little  girl  who  was  there, — such  a  crush 
there  was,  considering  a  private  party, — what  she 
thought  of  them;  and  she  said  anything  in  the 
ears  was  out  of  date. 

"How  dared  she?"  said  Henry,  sharply. 
"My  earbobs !  What  was  her  nasty  little  name?" 

"I  didn't  hear  it, — in  nurse's  dress,  she  was: 
one  of  those  V.A.D.  girls.  She  was  brought, 
though,  by  a  man  who  said  he  knew  you, — Mr. 
Lancaster." 


72  MADAM 

"Lancaster?"  Henry  considered.  "Never 
heard  the  name." 

"Oh,  you  must  have,  dear!  He  had  stayed 
with  us." 

"Stayed  with  us?    AtWicken?" 

"Why,  yes, — he  knew  it  quite  well." 

"I  never  had  a  Lancaster  to  stay  with  me,"  said 
Henry.  "Langridge,  perhaps.  What  kind  of  a 
Lancaster  was  he?  Young?" 

"Quite  young,"  said  Miss  Wicken,  "and  a  dear 
boy.  It  was  he  who  warned  me  there  was  such  a 
crush  in  the  wedding-present  room,  and  took  me 
round.  He  looked  healthy,  which  is  so — I  mean, 
and  he  admired  yours  so  much." 

"Oh,"  said  Henry.  "I  was  on  the  point  of  ask- 
ing if  his  taste  was  good." 

"Oh,  you  could  see  it  would  be :  every  remark 
he  made :  knew  what  he  liked,  too,  not  gushy. 
One  gets  so  tired,  at  weddings,  of  that.  He 
stopped  short  at  yours,  quite  struck,  and  gazed 
for  ever  so  long.  So  I  told  him  you  were  the 
greatest  friend.  I  hope  that  was  right,  dear?" 

"Quite  right,"  said  Henry,  steady  without, 
though  he  was  shrinking  inwardly.  There  were 
so  many  people,  first  and  last,  who  knew  his  pri- 
vate affairs.  Of  course  this  healthy  fellow  (curse 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  73 

him)  was  one  of  them,  the  old  lot  He  could 
hardly  listen  to  Miss  Wicken,  for  puzzling  who 
he  could  be. 

"I  can't  quite  like  the  card,  dear,"  said  Miss 
Wicken.  "It  looks  awkward, — I  mean,  with  that 
lovely  gift.  With  congratulation.'  Should 
there  not  be  an  V  on  it,  anyhow?" 

"No,"  said  Henry.  He  burst  out.  "What  else 
should  I  put?  I  do  congratulate  her  on  Nichol. 
It's  what  I  feel  chiefly,  if  you  want  to  know.  I'll 
change  it  to  love,  if  you  like — "  He  was  getting 
feverish. 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Miss  Wicken,  terribly  sorry 
she  had  touched  the  subject.  She  was  most  ten- 
der over  Henry, — rather  too  much  so.  There 
ensued  a  trifle  of  an  awkward  pause. 

"Bother  Lancaster,"  said  Henry  at  last.  "I 
can't  place  him.  My  memory's  off  it.  He  must 
be  a  friend's  friend, — you  know  how  rottenly 
friends  choose  their  friends,  don't  you,  Auntie? 
Now  look  here,  Auntie," — he  took  her  hand. 
"Whatever  is  the  use  of  being  an  artist,  if  you 
can't  describe  Lancaster?  What  was  he  besides 
a  dear?  Fair?  Dark?  Devilish?" 

"Not  the  least?"  cried  Miss  Wicken.  "Ever 
so  nice, — and  gentle." 


74  MADAM 

"Oh,  gentle."  Henry  tried  some  more,  but  it 
was  useless.  Miss  Wicken  had  been  captivated, 
but  she  could  not  say  why.  "What  was  the  little 
girl  like,  then?" 

"Oh,  prettyish:  but  rather  cross,  I  thought. 
Perhaps  overworked,"  said  Miss  Wicken,  kind- 
ly. "Not  the  very,  very  nicest  sort  of  manners." 

"The  worst,  to  abuse  my  earbobs, — Erith's  ear- 
bobs.  They're  made  for  Erith.  I  never,"  said 
Henry,  "saw  a  girl  turn  rosy  all  over,  as  she  did 
when  she  opened  the  box.  She  had  been  hanker- 
ing, you  see,  like  any  common  girl,  and  hanging 
back  from  asking.  Thought  it  beneath  her — " 

"Such  a  lovely  wild-rose,  isn't  it?"  said  Miss 
Wicken:  who,  as  artist,  could  have  described 
Erith  Fleming  fast  enough.  She  glanced  fur- 
tively at  Henry,  dreaming 

"Did  Erith  know  Lancaster?"  said  Henry 
suddenly. 

"Oh,  well,  now, — Erith  came  late.  She  was 
rather  bored  by  all  the  people.  Did  Erith  see 
Mr.  Lancaster,  Robert?"  The  Colonel  had  en- 
tered. "She  was  talking  to  the  girl,  certainly." 

"Then  I'll  ask  Erith  about  them,"  said  Henry 
finally:  (for  his  uncle  was  useless)  :  and  he 
made  a  note. 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  75 

aBy  the  way,  Lancaster,"  said  Henry :  remem- 
bering again,  with  terrible  suddenness,  next  day. 
His  remembering  made  a  whole  row  of  people 
start :  for  it  was  at  a  League-of-Nations  meeting. 

Henry  went  to  League-of-Nations  meetings, 
though  he  had  a  taste  for  something  stronger, 
which  he  never  betrayed.  He  did  once  say  that 
League-of-Nations  seemed  to  him  like  Malt  Ex- 
tract when  you  wanted  an  emetic:  but  he 
shocked  even  Erith  so  dreadfully,  that  he  had 
been  careful  to  turn  up  at  the  gatherings  since. 

"Hush — ush — ush,"  said  several  people,  of 
Liberal  persuasion,  at  Lancaster's  loud  name. 
Henry  calmed  down,  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
guarded  Lancaster.  When  they  were  all  at  tea  in 
a  penny-plain  restaurant, — because  not  even  he 
and  Glover  combined  could  discover  a  twopence- 
coloured  for  the  ladies  in  the  quarter  where  the 
meeting  was, — he  trotted  him  forth  again. 

Nichol,  eating  eagerly,  knew  no  such  man. 
That  was  straightforward,  of  Nichol.  Erith,  in 
her  prettiest  way,  said — "Put  a  face  to  him." 

"Just,"  said  Henry,  "what  I  can't  do.  Auntie 
can,  but  she  won't,  because  little  Lancaster  made 
sheep's-eyes  at  her.  She  liked  him  awfully,— 
yes,  Auntie;  and  my  uncle  approved  of  him  too. 


76  MADAM 

He  remembered  the  stable  at  Wicken.  Come 
now,  Erith!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Henry,  think  of  the  millions  of 
men!  Partners  alone,  all  lovely,  all  black- 
legged,  generally  jealous, — lost  in  dreams!  It's 
years  since  I  thought  of  partners." 

"Give  me  the  next  and  the  next,"  said  Henry, 
mechanically.  "Nichol  is  beginning  to  loathe 
Lancaster.  But  you  saw  him,  Erith.  At  least, 
you  saw  the  girl.  Come,  come !" 

"I  did  not  see  him."  It  struck  Henry  she  was 
rather  pale.  Had  League-of-Nations  had,  so  to 
speak,  the  wrong  effect  on  her?  They  all  talked 
a  little  about  Lancaster,  Miss  Wicken  eager, 
Mrs.  Fleming  tentative,  Colonel  Wicken  down- 
right approving.  Even  Nichol  recalled  some- 
thing, vaguely. 

"Oh,  do  you  mean  that  tall  boy?"  said  Erith 
at  last.  "I  met  him,  just  going  out." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Henry.  "Thanks  for  meet- 
ing Lancaster,  my  oldest  friend.  Now  put  a  face 
to  him,  Erith." 

"Oh,  I  can't!" 

"Mrs.  Fleming!" 

"Well,  I  liked  him,"  said  Mrs.  Fleming,  still 
tentative.  "The  little  girl  was  quite  nice.  They 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  77 

just  called,  and  he  introduced  himself  as  know- 
ing you.  Was  that  all  right?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Henry.  Erith  looked  at  him 
sharply,  once. 

"You  had  asked  him  to  call,  then?"  her  mother 
said. 

"If  I  had  known  him,  I  certainly  should." 

"Henry,  are  you  mad?  Are  we  all  mad? 
Who  was  he?" 

"It's  only,"  said  Henry,  "the  natural  state  of 
hallucination,  consequent  upon  a  League-of- 
Nations  meeting.  We  are  all  in  our  senses,  quite. 
Calm  yourself,  Auntie.  Did  you  miss  anything, 
Mrs.  Fleming,  after  Lancaster  and  the  nice  little 
girl  called?" 

"Miss  anything?"  said  Mrs.  Fleming,  per- 
fectly horror-struck.  Her  house  was  full  of  such 
treasures,  so  small,  so  unique, — so  dear,  since 
they  were  merely  a  tasteful  family,  not  a  rich 
one.  "Oh,  Erith,  dearest!" 

"I  could  have  told  you  it  was  an  assumed 
name,"  said  Erith;  a  flame  in  her  face.  "The 
very  sound  of  it, — beastly !  Let's  go  home  at  once 
and  look,  Mother,  because  really — Of  course  I 
know  that  the  wedding-presents  are  all  there.  I 
went  through  them." 


78  MADAM 

"Did  you?"  said  Henry.  "Thank  goodness, — 
I  was  thinking  of  my  earbobs.  Don't  look  so 
emotional,  Erith, — they're  not  gone,  you  saw 
them.  They're  at  home,  in  a  pretty  little  box. 
There  may  be  a  Lancaster  after  all, — I  was  only 
joking.  How  can  we,  can  we  remember — " 

But  it  was  clear,  from  that  moment,  that  Erith 
wanted  to  be  nowhere,  except  at  home. 

It  did  strike  Henry  once,  that  Erith  had,  ac- 
tually, recognised  Lancaster  as  a  partner  out  of 
the  old  days.  But  of  course  she  might  not  want 
to  say  so  before  Nichol.  Poor  Erith! 


"HE'S  taken  her  out/'  said  Eric.  "Don't  tell  at 
the  hospital.  It's  only  on  trial,  if  it's  that." 

"Who?"  saidFoote. 

"Sister  Louie,  isn't  it?  That  little  curly  with 
the  pretty  eyes." 

"He  shouldn't  then,"  said  Foote.  "He  really 
shouldn't.  What  on  earth  put  him  on  it?" 

"She  did." 

"Oh,  come!" 

"Ay, — just  made  a  dead  set  at  him,"  said 
Mousie's  friend.  "He  didn't  ask  for  her,  special, 
as  you  can  guess.  He  went  on  visiting  day  to  see 
one  of  his  brother's  pals:  George,  that  is, — none 
of  the  brothers  he  was  keen  on.  Still,  he  went. 
He  didn't  mind  a  look  at  Sister,  by  the  way,  but 
— well !  There  she  was,  after  him,  friendly  first, 
then — missionising.  ToMousie!" 

"Ah,  I  guessed  so."    Foote  was  wise. 

"She  was  at  Mona.  Someone's  been  letting  on 
about  them.  Was  it  you  ?" 

"I  never  got  to  telling,"  said  Foote.  "You 
can't,  near,  with  a  kid  like  that." 

79 


8o  MADAM 

"Well,  anyhow,  she  touched  Chris, — that's 
what  set  him  off,  turned  him  wicked.  So  then  he 
took  her  out,  after  that,  and  treated  her,  cham- 
pagne and  such,  and  played  the  toff  to  better  her, 
and  took  her  to  an  afternoon  party." 

"What?" 

"Ah, — you  shouldn't  have  let  on  about  Mona. 
He  told  me  he  got  thinking  what  was  the  place 
for  kind  ladies,  and  remembered  some  friends  of 
his  living  at  Kensington.  Oh,  by  George,  you 
should  hear  him  tell  it!  And  her,  too, — little, 
silly,  sniggering—" 

"Oh  come  now !    No  harm  in  her." 

"Not  for  you  and  me.  But  he's  a  cut  over, 
now,  isn't  he?  He  will  have  sense, — Chris  was 
just  the  same.  She  tried  him  on  politics,  too, — a 
gal  out  of  a  hospital.  If  she  had  asked  him,  now, 
sensibly!" 

Mousie's  admirers  were  silent,  gazing  down  at 
the  glasses  before  them. 

"He  shouldn't  have  done  it,"  said  Foote,  ear- 
nestly. "They're  nice  people,  she  belongs  to. 
There's  a  sister  of  hers,  getting  I  don't  know  what 
a  week.  Some  classy  surgeon,  she  works  for: 
that's  their  style." 

"Next  thing'll  be,"  said  Eric,  quite  unaware 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  81 

how  he  was  hurting  Foote's  feelings,  "he'll  get 
me  to  take  Curly  on.  I  know  him.  He  gets  fed 
up  so  quick,  in  all  cases, — and,  as  I  say,  it's  a 
chance  if  he  wanted  her  at  all.  He  wanted  a 
look,  peacefully :  sitting  alongside  George's  pal's 
bed.  Why  can't  a  man  have  a  look, — but  he 
can't." 

"That's  right,"  said  Foote.  "He  can't." 
There  was  another  quite  religious  silence.  That 
is,  Eric  was  religious,  and  Foote,  though  sadly 
hurt,  was  watching  him.  Eric  was  rather  an 
overdressed  young  man,  all  his  attributes  crying 
wealth,  war-gotten.  But  he  was  a  perfect  fol- 
lower, and  more:  the  more  he  was,  when  he 
talked  of  Mr.  Lancaster,  was  quite  visible. 

"Tell  us  about  the  party,"  suggested  Foote. 
"Which  of  the  viscounts  was  it?  He  really  is/" 

"No  viscount  at  all.  Mousie's  fed  up  with 
viscounts.  No  style  in  'em,  and  bad  horses,  he 
says.  Besides,  where  he  goes  out,  he  likes  feed- 
ing, he  says :  and  the  aristocracy,  just  now,  has 
to  set  an  example." 

"Their  servants'  halls  don't,"  said  Foote. 

"No,  but  he's  done  with  servants'  halls.  First 
thing  to  go  to  hell,  will  be  the  good  servants  of 
the  good  masters.  He's  sure  of  that." 


82  MADAM 

"But  wasn't  Chris— " 

"You  must  leave  talking  of  Chris!  He  was 
never  anyone's  good  servant;  he  was  off  duty, 
half  the  time.  First  an d  last,  he  taught  Mouse 
all  he  knows.  Mouse  is  Chris,  Mona  says,  and 
she  ought  to  know — " 

"Is  he  in  Chris's  place,  then?"  Endless  pause. 
"I  don't  see  why,  me  to  you,  we  shouldn't  ask." 

"Would  you  blame  him  if  he  was?"  chal- 
lenged Eric. 

"No,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Foote,  after  painful 
thought. 

"Well,  shut  it  off,  then,"  said  the  young  man 
Eric,  with  curious  sombreness.  "You  can't  judge 
and  I  can't, — though  I  might  more,  having 
known  them.  But  I  don't  go  gassing  to  strange 
gals  of  it — " 

"All  right,"  said  poor  Freddy.  "She  isn't 
strange,  though,  Eric.  I'm,  as  it  were,  getting 
fond  of  her — " 

"Eh? — oh!"  said  Eric,  his  mouth  opening. 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  sooner?" 

But  he  seemed  vexed,  and  Foote  was  over- 
humble:  so  the  conversation  closed  soon  after 
that. 


XI 

MISS  ASTLEY  was  very,  very  worried.  The 
whole  of  her  other  life,  the  home  at  Clapham, 
was  upset  and  agley.  Her  mother  was  ill, — or 
thought  she  was, — which  is  rather  worse;  her 
father  was  soberly  perturbed;  the  reason,  of 
course,  being  Lucy. 

Lu  was  breaking  their  hearts.  She  wanted  to 
drop  the  hospital,  and  take  to  singing  again. 
After  all,  the  war  was  over,  she  said,  and  she  was 
fairly  fed-up, — a  frightful  expression.  Who 
could  she  have  picked  it  up  from?  She  unlearnt 
all  her  nice  manners,  curled  her  hair  more  over 
her  right  eyebrow  than  ever  she  had  done,  and 
"went  with  men."  There  was  one  quite  nice  man 
all  ready  for  her:  but  Lucy  would  have  none  of 
Freddy  Foote.  She  went  with  others,  and  gig- 
gled at  his  melancholy  virtue.  She  learnt  that  he 
was  called  "truthful  Freddy,"  and  giggled  at 
that, — Foote  could  not  see  why  it  was  offensive. 

The  hospital  lodged  a  complaint,  after  many 
complaints  had  been  suppressed.  Somebody  in 
its  walls,  whom  Lu  pretended  to  hate  and  despise, 

83 


84  MADAM 

had  "spoken  to  her."  Their  Lu  had  been 
"spoken  to"  by  a  matron :  just  like  any  of  those 
terrible  sham  "sisters"  that  had  made  Mrs.  Ast- 
ley  shudder  so  often :  the  veiled  skeletons  of  the 
first  year  of  the  war. 

Lina  was  appealed  to,  of  course,  wildly,— 
frantically;  with  every  moment  of  her  day  en- 
gaged, she  must  take  the  matter  on.  Patiently 
she  tried  to  get  facts  out  of  Lu ;  then  she  tried 
Fred,  hoping  she  was  not  a  traitor;  and  Fred, 
very  shy  and  very  cryptic,  sought  to  let  Miss  Lina 
know  the  kind  of  thing. 

"That  man,"  she  said,  rather  pink.  "Is  he 
playing  with  her?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Foote  said.  "He  dropped 
her  again,  you  know,  and  let  Eric.  That's  their 
way.  Eric  likes  her  a  bit,  but  there's  nothing  in 
it.  Nothing  to  matter.  It's — as  it  were — quite 
all  right." 

"You  mean,  she  is  doing  it." 

"I  don't  know,  Sister, — Miss  Lina,  I  mean. 
She's  too  young  for  their  sort,  so  to  say — " 

"Too  innocent,  you  mean." 

"Oh,  now,  don't!"  said  Fred,  unhappily.  He 
could  not  decide  whom  to  defend.  "She  amuses 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  85 

them, — singing  and  all, — they'd  let  her  go  if  you 
liked—" 

"If/  liked?" 

"If  you  asked  them,  I  mean.    Serious." 

"If  /asked  them?" 

"Ay,  they  mean  no  harm.  Not  to  her,  anyhow. 
It's  just  the  way  things  happen,"  said  melancholy 
Fred. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Astley,  pink.  "If  you  live, 
taking  what  comes." 

"That's  right,"  said  Foote,  meekly.  He 
fancied,  though,  he  had  got  his  meaning  through 
to  her,  more  or  less:  she  was  such  a  wise  little 
sister-to-be. 

That  evening,  during  a  sad  and  solitary  eve- 
ning ramble,  a  thing  occurred  to  Fred  that  hap- 
pened rarely.  He  met  Mousie  Lancaster. 

Mousie,  in  civilian  working-garb,  but  smart 
as  ever,  was  driving  one  of  the  autos  of  his 
American  firm.  He  was  consequently  alone,  and 
threatening  to  break  the  speed-limit,  simply  from 
ennui,  when  Foote  turned  up.  Foote  still  walked 
with  a  faint  limp :  so  a  voice  hailing  him  from  a 
car  was  natural.  In  he  got:  quite  sure  now  that 
Lancaster  was  in  the  right  of  it  and  always  had 


86  MADAM 

been;  because  melancholy  Fred  was  tired  with 
tramping  it,  to  tell  the  truth. 

He  grew  surer  and  surer  for  some  time,  as  the 
conversation  proceeded;  for  Mousie,  giving  a 
pal  a  lift  in  the  twilight,  was  pleasant. 

"Got  hold  of  your  girl  the  other  evening,"  said 
Mousie.  "An  oversight.  Eric  informed  me." 

He  never  said  anything  was  a  mistake :  over- 
sight was  a  word  he  favoured.  It  implied  he  had 
his  eye  on  such  a  number  of  things,  that  occa- 
sionally he  missed  a  minor  one.  Fred  was  im- 
pressed. 

"You  couldn't  have  known,"  he  said. 

"Couldn't  I  ?  Why  not?  Kind  of  her  to  come 
round  with  me,  anyway.  I  just  gave  her  a  turn." 

"I  heard,"  said  Foote.  He  ached,  having  the 
chance,  to  get  the  tale  from  headquarters;  but 
his  situation  with  Lu,  demanding  a  rigid  dignity, 
forbade  it.  "You  oughtn't,  really,"  he  explained, 
"because  of  her  family.  That's  a  fact.  You've 
excited  her.  Her  sister,  she  was  talking  to  me 
this  evening.  You  know  her  sister,  don't  you?" 

"Ne-ow."  A  Colonial  drawl.  "Yep,  I  saw 
her  once.  What  of  it?  Down  on  me,  is  she?" 
He  skinned  a  corner  neatly, — and  flagrantly. 
He  was  on  the  wrong  side. 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  87 

"That,"  said  Foote  soon,  of  something  else,  "is 
against  the  law." 

"So  it  is."  Mousie  made  it  perfectly  impossi- 
ble to  talk  of  the  Astleys  for  ten  minutes :  "furi- 
ous" was  not  the  word  for  him. 

"Look  here,  why  Jo  you  do  it?"  said  Foote, 
after  an  interval  of  making  sure  he  was  alive. 
They  were  toddling  prettily,  and  a  policeman  in 
sight. 

"Why?  Well,  I  suppose  because  I  dam-don't 
care.  Can  I  drop  you  anywhere?  The  Carl  ton? 
Or  were  you  running  down  to  Surrey  to-night?" 

" Why  do  you  do  it?"  repeated  Foote.  "That's 
what  that  girl  asked.  That's  what  happens,  she 
says  to  me,  if  you  live  taking  what  comes." 

"She'd  heard  of  my  taking  a  horse,  then?"  said 
Mousie,  casual. 

"A  what?"    Foote  turned  pale. 

"Tell  everyone  you  know  about  it,  won't  you? 
You  seem  to  be  tell-tale  in  chief." 

"Mousie!" 

"Don't  call  me  that." 

"I  see,"  said  Foote,  after  a  groping  pause. 
What  with  the  giddiness  of  the  drive,  and  the 
giddiness  of  Mousie's  conversation — however, 
he  gathered  his  manhood.  "Look  here,  stop  all 


88  MADAM 

this  racket,  if  you  can  for  a  moment,  and  let  us 
talk  straight  For  Lord's  sake,  Lancaster.  I — I 
— care  for  Miss  Astley,  you  see." 

He  slackened  down,  slowly.  "All  right.  I'll 
come  to  the  wedding  at  Clapham.  When'll  it 
be?"  He  drew  his  bright  eyes  slowly  out  of 
vacancy, — they  were  slightly  bloodshot, — to 
Foote's  face. 

"It's  not  come  to  it  yet,  may  never.  Not  if 
you —  You  took  her  out  on  purpose,  did  you? 
Paying  me  back  ?  Let  me  know  the  rights  of  it.  I 
did  tell  her  a  bit,  but  it  was  only  trying  to  square 
things  for  you,  put  you  right.  Miss  Astley  was 
down  on  you,  see?  She's  seen  you  in  company 
at  the  movies,  see?  See?"  Foote  was  perspiring, 
for  all  the  chill  of  the  night-air,  so  great  was  the 
strain  of  this  explanation. 

"All — ri' — "  said  Mousie,  with  an  awful 
drawl.  He  worked  daily,  Foote  knew,  amid 
Transatlantics  at  his  motor-place,  and  had  all 
kinds  of  accents  at  call,  as  well  as  his  Mayfair 
accent.  "I  won't  bring  company  to  the  wedding 
at  Clapham.  See?"  He  mimicked.  "I  won't 
come  either,  among  the  kind  ladies,  and  the  con- 
fettori — "  He  paused  over  this.  "Better  with- 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  89 

I 

out  me,  anyway.  Get  out  if  you  want  to."  He 
stopped  the  car.  Foote  got  out. 

"Which  one  are  you  marrying?"  said  Mousie, 
then. 

"Lu." 

"You  said  Miss  Astley.  She  isn't.  Habits  of 
society,  upper-cut.  Both  seem  pretty  kind." 

"Wouldn't  you  have  women  kindp"  said 
Foote,  deeply  reproachful. 

"No."  He  swore  an  oath.  "They've  rotted 
the  whole  business,  being  it.  You  go  and  talk  to 
Mona.  We  want  something  else." 

"Great — George !"  thought  Foote,  profoundly 
impressed,  watching  Mousie's  car,  at  a  pretty  and 
decorous  pace,  go  paddling  away  in  the  twilight. 
"Sending  me  to  talk  to  Mona,  that  light-o'-love! 
And  about  women's  kindness !  There  never  was 
anything  like  that  kid  of  Eric's, — for  sheer 
starts!" 


XII 

NEXT  day,  about  one  o'clock,  Mr.  Lancaster, 
having  an  hour  off,  drove  to  the  point  where 
Harley  Street  debouches  into  Cavendish  Square, 
and  rested  there,  reading  a  newspaper. 

Various  drivers  of  various  carriages,  in  that 
quietly  busy  quarter  of  old-fashionable  London, 
came  by  his  corner,  and  looked  at  the  newspaper 
Mr.  Lancaster  was  reading,  with  disapproval ;  it 
was  not  their  shade  of  politics.  Also,  he  looked 
so  healthy  and  masterful  and  young,  that  he  an- 
noyed them :  they  wished,  visibly,  to  know  what 
he  thought  he  was  doing  there.  Mr.  Lancaster, 
turning  the  paper  under  their  gaze,  did  not  in- 
form them,  he  was  too  well  occupied.  His  eyes 
were  crawling  sidelong  beyond  the  newspaper  at 
intervals:  and  he  whistled  softly  the  innocent 
bucolic  air  of  the  "Red  Flag."  Mousie  loved 
that  tune:  the  more  since  somebody  had  assured 
him  it  was  German.  He  wondered  a  little  him- 
self why  he  felt  so  contented:  but  supposed  it 
was  the  effects  of  Eric's  late  cigar. 

One, — half-past  one, — nobody. 

90 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  91 

At  two,  Mr.  Forrest's  door,  up  the  street, 
emitted  a  tired-looking  girl.  She  was  very  late, 
and  must  hurry:  and  she  hated  hurrying,  espe- 
cially to-day, — there  was  such  a  weight  upon  her 
feet. 

Storms  at  home  and  storms  at  school  were  Miss 
Astley's  portion.  Mr.  Forrest  had  had  a  day  of 
misfitting  appointments,  and  an  unmanageable 
time-table;  nothing  would  wrest  the  clock,  or 
the  world,  or  even  a  human  digestion  to  its  re- 
quirements. Within  and  without  the  great  sur- 
geon, everything  was  amiss;  and  Miss  Astley, 
with  a  mother  believing  herself  ill,  and  thinking 
herself  sleepless,  had  had  an  interrupted  night. 
She  was  a  girl  who  needed  her  nights  and  her 
food  also.  Now  she  desired  nothing  so  much,  the 
human  part  of  her,  as  to  drag  herself  away  into 
the  Spring  sun,  somewhere,  and  sleep. 

So  she  barely  saw  a  young  man  in  a  car,  barely 
heard  the  "Red  Flag"  break  short,  barely  noted 
his  glance  slink  along  the  lines  of  print  they  were 
reading,  further,  and  in  her  direction. 

"I  say, — Madam/'  he  said:  low  enough,  only 
it  reached  her.  Mousie's  voice,  clever  like  all 
the  rest  of  him,  reached  where  it  liked. 


92  MADAM 

Miss  Astley  hesitated,  stopped,  and  a  pink  tint 
flew  in  her  face.  It  was! 

He  saw  quite  well  that  she  meant  to  go  on 
again,  unheeding.  Still  sitting  where  he  was,  he 
set  his  will  against  it,  and  his  jaw  hardened,  just 
visibly.  He  was  not  going  to  be  "cut,"  publicly, 
at  any  rate.  She  might  say  what  she  would  to 
him  later. 

Miss  Astley  had  a  will  as  well :  she  was  not  a 
weak  girl.  His  way  of  addressing  her  was  weak- 
ening, though, — the  restraint  of  it.  And  that 
queer  name  he  had  chosen !  Why  did  he? 

Mousie  had  no  idea.  She  was  Madam.  He 
had  his  unique  way  of  viewing  everybody,  high 
and  low,  in  London  town,  and  beyond  it.  A  girl 
who  drudged  at  a  surgeon's,  and  trudged  in  Har- 
ley  Street,  while  he  rode  royally,  was  Madam  if 
he  so  wished. 

After  hesitating  a  moment,  she  came  back. 
"Did  you  want  me?" 

"D'you  want  a  drive?"    He  seemed  sulky. 

"I  am  afraid  I've  no  time.  I  am  going  to 
lunch." 

"Come  a  drive,"  said  Mousie.  After  an  inter- 
lude he  added,  still  sitting  in  his  nonchalant  atti- 


LONDON   IS  BEWITCHED  93 

tude — "I'll  put  you  down  anywhere.  You 
needn't  lunch  here." 

Now  the  fact  was  that  Miss  Astley  wanted  any 
excuse  to  avoid  looking  at  a  penny-plain  restau- 
rant lunch-table.  She  had  all  the  feelings  that 
girls  have  after  a  wakeful  night  and  a  feverish 
morning;  and,  having  looked  on  at  Mr.  Forrest 
lunching  ill-temperedly,  felt  as  though  she  had 
eaten  that  meal  of  his  with  Dead  Sea  salt  super- 
added. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  drive  in  the  spring  sun 
was  so  desirable  as  to  be  almost  wicked.  Sliding 
along  the  sun-warmed  asphalt,  under  frivolous 
light-green  boughs,  and  in  a  young  man's  com- 
pany,— ah,  there  it  was! 

For  he  was  a  bad  young  man, — one  of  the  kind 
that  would  give  Mrs.  Astley  jumps  if  she  even 
dreamed,  during  her  so-called  troubled  nights, 
of  the  waft  of  his  borrowed  cigars.  He  haunted 
with  loose  women,  shop-girls  called  him  tipsy, 
he  had  tempted  little  Lucy,  shaken  her  off  the 
path  of  duty  into  his  own  devious, — his  fearfully 
devious  ways :  much  like  the  little  walks  in  the 
London  parks,  winding  under  the  opening  leaf- 
age. His  bright  eyes,  scanning  the  passing  girls, 
held  too  much  knowledge,  surely. 


94  MADAM 

"Come  a  drive,"  he  said  again.  "I  came  to 
fetch  you." 

"I  really  can't."  The  girl  gave  a  sob  to  her 
own  surprise.  Down  came  Mousie's  brows :  he 
looked  tired. 

"All  right,  I'm  going.  Tell  me  where  I  could 
see  you, — any  time." 

"You  want  to  talk  to  me?" 

"What  else?"  He  still  looked  weary,  to  Caro- 
line's eyes, — he  was  holding  in  his  temper,  really. 
She  wavered  a  moment,  and  then  gathered  her 
skirts  and  got  up  beside  him.  His  flash  of  relief, 
open-eyed,  in  her  direction,  was  very  curious. 

"Thanks,"  he  observed :  and  they  purred  away 
together. 

"I  wonder  if  I  ought,"  said  Miss  Astley  after 
a  time:  but  she  was  almost  smiling.  She  had 
never  guessed  what  it  was  to  drive  in  a  good  car, 
under  good  handling,  at  a  gracefully  easy  pace 
through  the  balmy  April  air.  One  does  not  guess 
without  trying  it:  and  even  then  some  grow  in- 
different, it  is  said.  Mr.  Lancaster  looked  at  his 
machinery,  as  though  the  one  thing  in  life  he  was 
afraid  of,  was  to  go  faster  than  the  requisite  pace. 
Now,  as  a  rule,  Mr.  Lancaster's  fear  was  just  the 
opposite.  However,  the  technique  of  his  trade 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  95 

was  a  mere  accompaniment  to  his  other  inten- 
tions :  he  spoke  soon. 

"I'll  put  you  down  where  you  want:  youVe 
on'y  to  say."  Interval.  "You  don't  like  me, — 
your  people." 

"No,  we  don't." 

"Why's  that?"  He  looked  indifferent.  "I'm 
not  a  slacker.  Did  you  think  I  was." 

"I  thought  you  might  be  slack,  yes,  in  some 
ways."  Miss  Astley  bit  her  lip.  "Need  you  ask 
me?" 

"Course  I  must."  The  answer  seemed  to  hurt 
her,  somewhere. 

"If  I  wanted  Curly, — your  sister, — couldn't  I 
have  her?" 

"No." 

"Why's  that?  Cause  I've  got  somebody? 
Aren't  two  allowed,  in  your  parts?  There  are 
places," — he  nodded  away  vaguely — "where 
two's  reckoned  short." 

"I  don't  think  you're  serious,"  said  Miss  Ast- 
ley faintly. 

Silence  on  Mousie's  part,  for  a  long  time.  "Is 
this  too  fast  for  you?" 

"No.  If  I  cry,  it's  not  the  wind."  She  shook 
her  head  as  though  to  shake  the  tears  off. 


96  MADAM 

"Why  is  it,  then?  I  oughtn't  to  have  fetched 
you,  ought  I?  You  had  a  bad  time?" 

She  tried  to  conquer  the  tears,  most  incon- 
venient, humiliating,  and  strange.  She  could  not 
understand  her  crying.  She  had  a  bad  time! 
She!  How  could  a  man  so  make  her  feel  trag- 
edy,— again :  for  she  had  known  it,  essentially, 
the  very  first  time  they  met. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  an  ass,  the  things  I  do? 
Taking  horses  and  so  on?" 

"You've  not  taken  a  horse." 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"Give  it  back  immediately,"  said  Miss  Astley, 
with  a  silly  little  sob. 

"I  don't  know  who  it  belongs  to, — didn't  ask. 
I  wanted  it, — I'm  a  rider."  He  suddenly  looked 
at  her. 

"All  right,  I  believe  it,"  said  Miss  Astley. 

"Yes,  but  you  think  I'm  boasting,  when  I  say 
it.  I  tell  you,  I'm  thinking  of  joining  a  circus 


soon." 


"Nonsense,"  she  said, — but  she  was  getting 
better ;  the  rush  of  air,  or  something,  was  helping 
her  headache  enormously, — headache  is  the  best 
reason  for  tears  that  exists,  for  working-girls. 


LONDON  IS  BEWITCHED  97 

"Oh,  look  here,  you're  cutting  me  off!  I've 
got  to  earn  my  screw,  haven't  I?" 

"Not  on  another  person's  horse." 

"This  is  another  person's  car.  I'll  ride  it  for 
them  a  bit,"  said  Mousie,  glinting.  "What 
lunch-place  do  you  like?  That's  a  good  one." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  possibly,  any  of  these."  Miss 
Astley  was  frightened ;  for  they  were  in  the  land 
of  twopence-coloured, — what  do  I  say?  Of  six- 
pence cut-out-mounted-and-lit-up :  they  were  in 
Piccadilly,  to  which  he  had  brought  her  by  in- 
sidious back  ways. 

Mousie  laughed.  "Try  it:  I'll  take  you."  He 
was  actually  drawing  up. 

"No,  Indeed.  Please  take  me  up  home  imme- 
diately. To  Harley  Street." 

"But  I  want  you  to  have  something.  Some- 
thing hot.  Tea,  now." 

"I  never,"  said  Miss  Astley,  "have  tea."  At 
lunch,  she  meant.  She  was  prim,  for  it  was  prin- 
ciple. 

"Don't  you?  I  thought  girls  did."  Reluc- 
tantly he  moved  the  car.  "My  girl  does, — I  sup- 
pose it's  that.  She  and  I  have  been  here." 

"Who  is  your  girl?"  said  Caroline  very  gent- 
ly. They  were  now  purring  up  Regent  Street, — 


98  MADAM 

reckless,  for  Mousie :  some  of  his  dear  friends 
were  certain  to  be  about. 

"My  girl's  Mona.  Mona  Faraday,  she's 
called.  I  think,"  he  said,  "it's  her  real  name." 

"It's  pretty,"  said  Miss  Astley,  with  a  fearful 
effort.  Her  cheek  was  flushed,  her  lips  trem- 
bling. All  her  mother's  "pretty"  nature  within 
her  protested  against  his  speaking  to  her  of  this. 
But  there  was  something  else  in  Caroline. 

"Yep,  it's  a  pretty  name.  I  like  girls'  names. 
What's  yours?" 

She  told  him,  and  he  repeated  it. 

"Caroline.  I  had  an  aunt  called  that.  Lina, 
we  called  her."  He  pronounced  it  long. 

"They  call  me  Lina.  Have  you  brothers  and 
sisters  then?  You  said  'we,'  "  she  added,  as  he 
was  silent,  apparently  surprised. 

"We,  I  said.  That's  me  and  Maudie,  my  sis- 
ter." 

"Is  she  a  nice  sister?" 

"I  don't  know,  Madam.    She's  ill." 

"111?"    He  nodded. 

"So  they  say.    I've  not  seen  her  lately." 

"Don't  they  like  you,  at  home?" 

"Maudie  might.  But  she's  forgotten  me. 
She'd  have  to  start  liking  me  over  again." 


LONDON  ISJ'B,£WIXCjajEP;   .      99 

"Is  it  so  long — "  She  ceased,  and  was  silent. 
It  seemed  as  though,  whatever  she  asked,  she 
dragged  the  truth  out,  though  hurting  him. 
Consequently,  she  must  be  careful. 

"Mr.  Lancaster." 

"Madam." 

"Will  you  give  me  your  promise  not  to  come 
near  my  sister  Lucy.  Or — or  let  Eric." 

"If  you'll  not  cut  me  off,  I  will." 

"Oh,  what  do  you  mean  ?  You've  got  the  other 
girl, — Mona." 

"She  isn't  a  girl.  I  mean,  she's  a — got  a  kid — 
oh,  damn!"  He  flung  a  fierce  taunt  back  to  a 
carman  who  abused  him.  "Sorry,"  he  said  to 
Caroline.  "They  will  do  it.  De-ownt  know 
their  place,"  he  drawled. 

"Will  you  put  me  down  here? — I'd  rather  not 
go  nearer,"  was  her  next  remark,  after  what 
seemed  like  an  endless  age.  She  did  not  want  to 
be  seen  with  him  now.  He  stopped,  sulky:  and 
put  her  down  in  a  quiet  by-way.  Miss  Astley, 
parting  with  him,  had  not  the  least  wish  to  cry. 
She  wondered  she  had  ever  cried, — she  must 
have  been  tired.  His  eyes,  crawling  about  with 
a  sly  look,  made  her  very  angry, — and  frantic. 

"Look  here,  she's  from  our  parts.  Will  you 
come  and  meet  her?" 


ioo  t'c  ti.:*r#y^|  MAD  AM 

"How  dare  you  ask  me?" 

"Saying  that's  as  bad  as  swearing  for  me. 
We're  quits,"  said  Mousie. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"It's  common." 

"There  are  some  common  things  that  are  the 
right  things,"  said  Miss  Astley.  "And  some  very 
old  ones, — good-bye." 

"Good-bye Hold  on,  I've  not  said 

what  I  came  for.  Do  you  know  what  it  is?" 

"I  can't  wait."    She  set  her  lips,  desperate. 

"Curly."  She  was  actually  starting,  but  the 
sulky  murmur  reached  her.  It  was  meant  to 
reach.  Swiftly  she  shot  round. 

"You  are  not,"  she  directed  haughtily,  "to  call 
my  sister  that." 

"Right-o,  Madam.  Made  you  listen,  though. 
Come  nearer.  I'm  sorry  I  fooled  with  her,  put 
your  back  up.  Maybe  that  foolin'  's  played  out, 
-the  kids  do  it.  That's  all." 

Their  eyes  met :  she  went  on  slowly  up  Harley 
Street.  He  had  called  for  her,  in  somebody 
else's  car,  simply  to  apologise :  and  had  been  too 
shy  or  something  to  do  so  till  the  last.  And  he 
volunteered,  for  her  reassurance,  that  only  kids, 
nowadays,  played  the  fool.  But  he  was  one! 


PART  II 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF 


MONA  FARADAY  was  "out"  against  society:  a 
real,  rabid  red-cap :  Mousie  was  not.  He  was  a 
reformer  born,  and  in  training:  though  he  went 
"mad"  at  times.  The  world  was  still  captivating, 
in  other  people's  cars,  to  Mousie,  at  intervals ;  to 
Mona  it  was  rubbish,  and,  but  for  her  baby,  she 
would  willingly  have  cast  it  away. 

She  argued  it  with  Mouse  (it  had  been  Chris's 
name  for  him,  and  Mona  kept  it)  — but  she  could 
not  argue ;  she  had  the  wit  in  plenty,  but  not  the 
wisdom,  or  the  words.  He  was  long-suffering 
with  her,  used  to  being  treated  as  a  boy,  which 
was  Mona's  invariable  treatment — her  ail-but 
invariable  treatment — of  Mousie.  He  had  been 
that,  contemptibly,  when  she  first  knew  him. 
Nowadays,  there  were  lapses:  consequent,  no 
doubt,  on  her  being  unable  to  help  kissing  him 
when  he  looked  like  Chris. 

She  really  had  loved  Chris,  passionately  and 
long  (for  Mona)  ;  but  he  was  becoming  a  leg- 

103 


io4  MADAM 

end,  as  things  for  such  women, — whose  whole 
power  of  thought  must  be  spoken,  to  be  thought 
at  all, — will  do.  She  had  never  been  unfaithful 
to  Chris,  nor  let  her  thoughts  wander  from  him, 
in  his  life-time;  Chris  had  been  unfaithful  to 
her,  but  that  was  another  story.  But  brothers, — 
their  looks  and  movements, — are  confusing  to  a 
weakened  intellect.  It  was  becoming  easier  to 
remember  Chris,  when  Chris's  brother  was 
about:  that  was  all. 

Mona's  intellect  had  not  always  been  feeble, 
or  Chris  would  never  have  chosen  her:  it  had 
been  weakened  by  worry  and  want,  during  the 
war-years ;  and  such  want  and  worry  were  a  true 
indication  of  her  exact  standing,  in  the  "layers" 
of  society  Fred  Foote  had  mentioned.  There 
were  "kind  ladies"  galore,  during  the  war-years, 
most  eager  to  help  Mona,  and  Mona's  child ;  but 
she  loathed  kind  ladies:  she  would  none  of 
them:  her  eyes  were  wicked  when  they  came 
near.  Innumerable  kind  ladies  and  "sisters" 
could  not  bear  her,  she  said  such  things  to  them, 
— scraps'  of  Chris.  Chris  had  taught  it  to  her, 
and  he  had  worked  in  willing  material:  he  had 
taught  her,  and  she  believed,  that  it  was  the 
whole  scheme  of  things  that  was  wrong.  She 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         105 

was  "out"  against  society,  plus  charity,  and  espe- 
cially plus  war-charity  of  the  ultra-British  make : 
that  was  what  led  to  Mona's  all  but  starving  in  a 
garret,  in  the  months  following  Chris's  death: 
for  Chris's  money — owing  to  one  of  the  compli- 
cated muddles  that  other  kind  ladies,  with  pens, 
were  trying  to  solve — never  came  her  way.  It  is 
true,  the  baby  absorbed  her,  and  there  were 
others  quicker  to  claim.  Mona  did  not  mind: 
she  would  not  take  anybody's  money,  but 
Mousie's;  of  course,  at  the  worst,  she  took  that. 

Because  she  loved  him,  as  Chris  had  done, 
and  as  most  people  did,  if  it  came  to  that.  Chris, 
from  youth  up,  together  with  three  brothers,  had 
bullied  and  petted  and  played  with  Mousie,— 
taken  his  services,  "kidded"  him  with  their  su- 
perior knowledge,  and  stood  him  treat.  Love 
was  in  all  this,  warm  affection,  though  things 
never  get  called  by  their  names  in  small-town 
circles.  Mousie  returned  it,  whatever-it-was,  in 
kind,  to  the  four  brothers,  especially  to  Chris. 
He  excepted  George,  the  fifth,  from  whatever- 
it-was,  though  he  was  friendly  George-ward. 
Chris-ward  he  had  always  been  silent  and  ador- 
ing: when  Chris  bullied  him  painfully,  the  most. 

His  support  of  Mona  was  the  most  natural,  the 


io6  MADAM 

most  elemental  thing:  the  thing  that  it  stirred, 
ail-but  inspired  Foote  and  company  merely  to 
think  of :  and  which  quite  forbade  their  speak- 
ing much.  But  the  strange  thing  was  that  Mona 
rose  to  it.  She  rose  simply,  as  he  did,  met  him 
exactly,  and  loved  him  little-brother-like  for 
ever  so  long.  He  was  saving  her  child,  which 
made  all  easy:  or  should  have  done,  in  the  an- 
cient, golden  world. 

There  are  lovely  things  that  are  ancient  as  hu- 
manity: very-old  things.  They  are  all  penny- 
plain,  though  poetry,  of  course,  feels  after  them. 
Science,  such  as  Mr.  Forrest's,  feels  after  them 
too.  Mona  was  no  sort  of  girl,  she  was  a  pro- 
vincial light-of-love,  living  by  the  senses,  slackly : 
for  her  political  passion  was  really  of  the  senses 
too.  The  boy  had  ploughed  through  the  dregs  of 
the  aviation-camps,  much  like  others:  healthy, 
and  so  better  than  most.  He  guessed,  with  won- 
derful art,  that  the  thing  was  to  keep  Mona 
healthy,  by  any  means;  for,  unlike  her,  he  re- 
membered, acted  out,  and  added  to  his  brother's 
philosophy.  He  erred,  therefore,  on  the  side  of 
spoiling  her;  he  thought  one  must,  when  there 
were  babies  about.  He  read  much,  and  occa- 
sionally even  the  ladies'  leaflets  on  the  sly;  but 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         107 

his  own  sense,  and  administrative  instinct,  build- 
ing upon  Christopher's  wild  and  wasted  clever- 
ness, was  at  the  back,  really,  of  all  he  did. 

Only  this — a  matter-of-course,  with  such  as 
Mona, — was  but  the  beginning  of  the  tale. 
Mousie  was  wrestling  with  the  sequel  now,  and 
he  not  infrequently  fell  out  with  her.  Mona  was 
not  (for  all  Lu)  quite  old  enough  to  be  his 
mother,  and  she  was,  or  had  been,  a  lovely  coun- 
try girl.  Further,  she  did  silly  things  with  the 
baby,  at  times,  indulging  it.  Society,  looking  on 
and  assuming  the  worst,  after  the  manner  of  the 
headless  many-headed,  hypnotised  him,  too  fre- 
quently: it  was  apt  to  make  him  "mad"  as  his 
American  motor-place  would  say. 

True,  Mousie  might  have  been  mad  in  any 
case;  it  was  conceivable;  for  he  had  exactly 
Henry's  sensation  at  times  of  a  leering,  lop-sided 
world.  The  nightmare  just  behind,  for  a 
straight  spirit,  had  to  be  looked  at.  The  thought 
of  Chris,  and  Chris's  treatment  by  the  family, 
turned  him  "sick"  and  reckless  still.  The 
thought  of  the  others,  and  George, — George 
dutiful, — filled  up  the  balance  of  bitterness  and 
overflowed  it;  perhaps  it  was  George  who  over- 
flowed. George  had  been  an  awkward  kind  of 


io8  MADAM 

ass,  and  his  legs  and  arms  went  sprawling  over 
the  tragic  balance:  all  of  them  went  sprawling, 
slackly,  come  to  that, — the  trim  brothers  he  had 
known.  Their  faces, — and  Chris's  face — . 

Well,  about  there,  you  try  to  make  the  other 
men  laugh  by  breaking  the  speed-limit;  and  you 
go  to  the  greatest,  rowdiest,  most  impassioned 
Red  Flag  meetings,  to  dip  your  soul  at  eventide 
in  music,  and  to  keep  you  straight. 

Mousie  loved  the  "Red  Flag,"  and  whistled  it, 
much  as  his  mother,  in  old  time,  sang  softly  over 
her  children's  washing,  the  Evening  Hymn. 

There  was  a  new  time  coming,  "sure,"  when 
such  as  Mona,  beautiful  with  her  baby,  and  such 
as  Chris,  rough  and  irregular,  but  loved  and  lov- 
ing, and  such  as  Mousie,  fierce  to  learn,  and 
unable  to  find  fodder, — and  such  as  Maudie, 
Christian, — would  have  their  chance,  on  equal 
terms :  not  in  a  Golden  City  with  glass  streets,  that 
was  hymn-book  rubbish,  but  somewhere.  Sure! 

There  was  a  new  time  coming,  when  such  as 
Miss  Erith  Fleming,  and  such  as  Mousie's 
mother  (he  much  feared)  would  be  in  hell. 

And  when  such  as  George  would  not  matter, 
any  more  than  at  present,  or  formerly.  He  liked 
old  George. 


II 

MOUSIE  fell  out  with  Mona,  and  called  her  a 
fool,  and  would  not  take  her  to  the  pictures,  and 
spent  a  long  Sunday  in  the  country  with  Eric  in- 
stead, to  look  at  the  horse.  Also,  alas,  to  take  the 
horse  home,  because  he  had  found  out  whom 
Titus  belonged  to;  an  "oversight,"  the  taking  of 
Titus  had  been.  Some  of  Mousie's  good  genie, 
even  as  Wireless  whispering  on  the  masterless 
airs,  had  failed  to  let  him  know  all  he  should 
have  known,  that  happy  morning.  He  should 
have  known,  merely  by  looking  at  Titus,  natu- 
rally; only  he  thought  he  belonged  to  a  smart, 
fat  officer  of  the  old  school,  with  whom  "fooling" 
was,  as  it  were,  legitimate.  An  oversight. 

When  Mousie  had  trotted  out  Titus  to  Eric's 
stable  in  the  country,  he  had  been  a  little  silly, 
Eric  observed:  that  is,  over  and  above  the  silli- 
ness that  such  a  cracked  proceeding  implied. 
This  was  Titus'  fault,  it  dawned  upon  Eric 
slowly:  and  now,  on  the  Sunday  in  question,  he 
became  convinced  of  it,  quite.  To  pretend  that 
Titus  was  his  own,  for  a  long  day's  length,  and 

109 


no  MADAM 

that  the  Sabbath,  appealed  to  Mousie.  He  tried 
all  his  paces,  got  off,  and  wandered  round  him, 
investigating  "points"  and  what  not;  and  he 
made  love  to  Titus,  face  to  face,  in  Eric's  stable, 
really  foolishly,  as  youths  with  a  dash  of  Irish 
blood  in  them  will  do. 

The  odd  thing  was,  that  the  "new  man"  as  evi- 
dently appealed  to  Titus.  Titus'  game,  which 
had  crossed  Captain  Glover's  idea  of  humour  so 
completely,  was  Mousie's  game  as  well.  The 
ballets  they  danced,  in  concert,  in  the  new  field 
behind  Eric's  new  stable,  ended  in  the  conquer- 
ing posture — not  for  Titus.  The  new  man  never 
once  tried  the  floor,  as  the  old  one  had  done  (to 
Titus'  astonishment)  as  a  change  from  sitting 
erect. 

It  was  therefore  a  bitter  rite,  and  a  moment  of 
mourning  for  all  parties — except  Eric,  who  was 
relieved — when  both  of  them  bade  farewell  to 
his  horses  and  (highly-unwilling)  hospitality, 
and  Titus,  in  the  lemon-coloured  evening  light, 
was  conducted  home. 

It  was  easily  done,  though.  Mr.  Lancaster 
trotted  into  the  Wicken  stable-yard,  clad  in  khaki 
(most  of  him),  and  with  about  five-sevenths  of 
an  American  accent,  very  well  assumed.  When 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         in 

there,  and  dismounted,  he  looked  round  him  till 
somebody  came.  Then  he  said  wonderful  things 
about  the  British  po-leece  to  the  open-mouthed 
groom  in  charge,  who  had  of  course  heard  the 
Titus-saga  from  Mr.  Wicken's  end. 

"Not  much  the  worse,  is  he?"  said  Mr.  Lan- 
caster, patting  Titus, — who  was,  indeed,  infi- 
nitely the  better  for  a  week  of  hard  exercise  and 
wise  feeding,  not  to  mention  company  he  liked. 
"You'll  see  it  in  the  press  to-morrow,  sure,"  said 
Mousie.  "Say,  you're  Mr.  Chase,  aren't  you? 
Mr.  Wicken  said  I  should  give  you  his  card." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  groom,  bemused. 

"Between  ourselves,"  said  Mousie,  handing 
the  card,  "I  think  Mr.  Wicken  wants  to  avoid 
bales  of  goods  like  that  Glover  ridin'  him. 
That's  half  why  he  sent  him  down.  You  cairn't 
exactly,  in  his  position,  refuse  a  mount  to  a 
friend." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Chase,  looking  at  the  card.  He 
was  glad  to  have  it.  It  was  wonderfully  kind, 
and  reassuring,  of  Henry,  to  send  a  card  by  this 
nice-looking  young  Colonial:  and  such  a  card! 
So  flattering  in  the  mere  fact  of  it,  and  in  what 
was  written  below. 


ii2  MADAM 

"Mr.  Henry  Wicken"  was  printed,  of  course, 
upon  it;  and  scrawled  above  in  Henry's  own 
writing  was  a  "from"':  and  beneath,  the  words 
"with  congratulation." 


Ill 


THE  exchange  between  Henry's  Mr.  Lancaster, 
and  Henry's  Miss  Fleming,  at  the  "at  home"  on 
which  the  former  had  intruded,  was  as  follows : 
it  is  time  it  was  set  down. 

"How  dare  you  come  here?"  said  Erith,  in  her 
manner. 

"Aren't  Wicken's  friends  allowed?"  said 
Mousie,  in  his. 

It  might  not  seem  to  many  people  intolerable : 
nor  calculated  to  drive  Miss  Fleming  right  off 
her  bearings  with  rage.  It  was  class-rage,  really, 
which  in  our  era  can  be  horrible:  it  was  the 
"Wicken"  that  did  it,  more  than  the  rest.  A 
beastly,  common  little  soldier-boy, — someone 
who  had  jumped  to  attention  when  Henry  was 
in  the  army,  probably!  And  that  she,  Erith 
Fleming,  should  be  so  addressed,  and  that  with 
the  air  and  accent,  intolerably  imitated,  of  a 

knight  and  a  gentleman! That  she  had 

been  rude  to  him  first,  of  course,  never  occurred 
to  her.  She  had  not  been  rude,  she  had  been 
crushing  to  an  upstart, — quite  another  thing. 


ii4  MADAM 

But  there  was  more  in  her  rage :  and  the  more 
was,  that  Erith  was  actually  regretting  Henry, 
though  she  intended  to  marry  Nichol,  of  course. 
She  was  slipping,  in  the  matter  of  Nichol, 
though  she  did  not  say  so :  she  dated  it  from  the 
day  when  he  had  lain  in  the  golden  mud.  She, 
Erith,  had  been  given  away,  on  that  occasion,  as 
Henry,  she  was  sure,  would  never  have  given 
her. 

High-strung,  hair-tuned  girls  such  as  Erith 
are  much  to  be  pitied;  they  seldom,  or  never, 
know  their  own  minds.  From  youth  up  she  had 
melted,  temporarily,  into  everyone  she  met;  and 
while  she  was  tilting,  prettily,  had  taken  their 
soul-temperature,  and  the  colour  of  their  views. 
She  then  suited  herself  with  views  and  feelings 
which,  she  thought,  became  her:  much  as  she 
suited  herself  with  the  outline  of  a  hat. 

Exquisiteness  became  Erith,  obviously:  ear- 
rings were  seized  upon  by  the  same  grasping 
fancy,  innate,  she  thought:  long  before  they 
were  adjudged  to  her  by  Henry's  divination. 
Henry  himself  had  suited  this  self  of  hers,  pretty 
well:  but  then  she  had  broken  from  him  on  a 
whim,  and  an  equally  becoming  dignity  had  pre- 
vented her  returning  on  her  ways.  Since  her  en- 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         115 

gagement,  she  had  been  taking  opinions,  on  all 
sides,  concerning  Nichol:  and  the  last  result 
was,  that  she  was  not  so  sure, — she  was  not  quite 
so  sure. 

And  then  that  little  outsider  had  knocked  the 
impression  home, — oh! 

Mousie  and  Erith  were  enemies,  at  maturity, 
on  sight,  that  was  the  penny-plain  fact  of  it.  All 
he  most  wished  for,  worked  for,  Erith  and  her 
like  would  infallibly  and  for  ever  obstruct.  She 
loathed  his  pretension,  the  fact  that  he  was  "on 
the  make" ;  he  loathed  hers,  and  the  fact  that  she 
was  well  over  the  top,  and  on  the  down-grade, 
— decadent.  They  hated  one  another  otherwise, 
vigorously:  just  as  any  young  man  and  maiden 
may  hate.  But  her  hatred,  having  the  spur  of 
"languishing"  was  the  more  vicious.  It  ex- 
pressed itself  to  Nichol  in  the  wish  that  he  might 
be  "punished,"  and  get  a  month's  "hard."  That 
would  very  greatly  have  contented  her:  and  the 
more,  the  night  of  the  above  insufferable  speech. 

That  night,  collecting  and  reckoning  up  her 
wedding-presents,  she  discovered  that  the  card 
on  Henry's  gift  was  gone,  and  guessed  where  it 
had  gone.  She  wished  with  all  her  soul  that  he 
had  taken  the  earbobs  as  well.  However,  there 


n6  MADAM 

was  always  the  chance,  a  still  better  one,  that  it 
was  he  who  had  stolen  Henry's  horse.  Concern- 
ing that  she  had  visions,  very  pleasing  ones,  in 
which  he  was  brought  up,  trapped,  humiliated. 
After  that,  she  could  forgive  him  always :  they 
were  very  vague  scenes. 

"Hooray!"  said  Henry,  like  a  boy,  arriving  on 
a  battlefield  (though  he  knew  it  not)  in  Lady 
Glover's  drawing-room.  "Erith  —  Nichol  — 
Lancaster  is  all  I  thought  him,  mine  eternally! 
Titus  has  come  back!" 

"What?"  said  Nichol.    Erith  said  nothing. 

"I  knew  my  dear  old  friend  Lancaster  was  to 
be  trusted,"  said  Henry.  "He  did  his  best  to 
stop  Titus,  Nichol;  but  he  couldn't,  under  a 
week." 

"We-ell,"  said  Captain  Glover,  stretching 
himself.  "I'd  like  to  get  at  him  with  my 
hunting-crop.  However, — thank  the  Lord!" 

"Thank  the  Lancaster,"  said  Henry.  He 
shook  hands  with  Nichol,  left-handed:  as  men 
with  horses  do. 

"Which  of  them  would  you  like  to  get  at?" 
said  Erith,  to  Nichol. 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         117 

"The  man,"  said  Nichol,  simply.  It  was  the 
expression  of  his  great  relief. 

"You  shall,"  said  Henry,  warmly.  "You  shall, 
when  I  have  taken  both  of  them  to  my  heart. 
Oh,  he  is  a  darlin', — Aunt  is  right.  Listen  now! 
He  sent  him  back  with  a  card, — no,  no,  excuse 
me,  Lancaster  took  him.  Listen,  here  is  Chase, 
on  a  postcard."  Henry  read  aloud.  "  'Titus  ar- 
rived, sir,  quite  in  good  condition,  better  than 
seen  him  lately' — note  that,  better  than  Chase 
seen  him — 'and  Card  noted,  many  thanks,  Mr. 
Henry,  we  had  greatly  grieved.' ' 

"Card,"  said  Nichol.    "What  card  on  earth?" 

"Ay,  what  card?"  said  Henry,  happily.  He 
was  hugging  the  postcard.  After  all,  he  was  a 
man  with  a  horse. 

"Must  have  been  yours,  if  Chase  is  at  all  what 
you  take  him  for,"  said  Nichol.  "He'd  have 
been  on  the  look-out." 

Henry  looked  at  him  vaguely  for  a  minute. 
Then  he  said — "You  are  right.  It  must  have 
been  mine I  shall  go  down,"  Henry  sud- 
denly announced,  "to  Wicken  this  evening.  Say 
nothing,  anybody :  I  shall  go." 

"Can  I  come?"  said  Nichol.    "It  really  is  the 


n8  MADAM 

limit.    The  cheek  of  it.    I  say,  who  is  the  young 
ass?" 

"Nevermind,  I  shall  solve  it,"  nodded  Henry. 
"Now,  Erith,  do  help  me  to  write  to  that  police- 
man; you  know  the  one  I  mean.  How  do  you 
address  a,  policeman?  Dear  Officer  X  Y  Z,— 
that  sounds  like  a  Lear  Nonsense-rhyme.  You 
remember?" 

"I  think  you  had  better  wait,"  said  Erith. 

"How  do  you  mean,  wait?  You  don't  mean 
Titus  is  not  there?"  Henry's  pen  (left-handed) 
paused,  and  he  looked  anxious,  even  nervous,  a 
trifle.  Had  he  dreamed  it  all? 

"Of  course  he  is  there,"  said  Erith.  "But  a 
man  who  would  do  that,  a  thing  like  that, — there 
must  be  worse." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  Both  men  looked  at 
her.  "Is  anything  the  matter,  Erith?"  said 
Henry,  after  a  pause. 

"I  hate  telling  you,  Henry." 

"What  do  you  hate  telling  me  ?"  He  repeated, 
mechanically.  "Not—  He  arose,  pale  and 
grave.  "Have  you  been  scrapping?  Nichol,  it's 
your  fault." 

"Not  more  than  we  shall  do  for  the  next  ten 
years,"  said  Erith.  "I  have  warned  him." 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         119 

Henry  breathed  again.  So  also,  of  course,  did 
Nichol.  "All  my  fault,"  he  said. 

"Ugh!"  thought  Erith,  inward:  and  tried  not 
to  feel  a  loathing  for  his  tasteless  piety.  "Sit 
down,  Henry:  it's  nothing  as  bad  as  that.  It  is 

nasty,  though You  remember  asking  in 

fun,  on  the  League  of  Nations  night,  if  we  had 
missed  anything,  after  the  party!  Well,  I  have." 

"Erith!"  said  both. 

"I  did  not  want  to  tell  anybody,  even  Mother, 
— least  of  all  you,  Henry, — until  I  had  looked 
and  looked." 

"It's  the  earbobs,"  said  Henry,  divining.  "My 
dear — little — girl,  don't  look  so  distressed.  I'll 
give  you  lots  more,  twice  as  many,  all  you  have 
ears  for — wrhat  could  it  matter,  anyhow,  com- 
pared— " 

"You  compared  it.  I  didn't."  She  became 
her  usual  charming  self.  "I  thought  it  so  stupid 
of  us,  Henry,  and  you  might  mind.  To  have  a 
private  view  at  all,  without  a  detective — !  They 
were  tiny  little  things,  so  easily  taken — " 

"And  easily  lost,"  reminded  Nichol. 

"I  think  not,  dear,"  said  Erith  patiently. 
"The  box  was  there, — they  were  gone, — smoke 
that  a  little,  will  you? I  am  afraid  it  is 


120  MADAM 

those  people,  one  of  them,  Henry.  One  of  the 
two.  I  am  afraid  we  ought  to  follow  the  man, 
oughtn't  we?  Wouldn't  your  policeman,  for  in- 
stance?" 

The  die  was  cast.  Both  the  men,  after  a  tenta- 
tive glance  at  one  another,  gave  their  minds  to  it. 

"If  it  is  Lancaster,  he  will  send  them  back," 
began  Henry. 

"If  he  does,  he  should  be  planked  in  a  lunatic 
asylum,"  said  Nichol,  with  equal  defmiteness. 

"Agreed.  Poor  Lancaster, — I  believe  lunatic 
asylums  are  the  most  frightful  places,"  said 
Henry,  recollecting  one  of  his  feminine  elderly 
agitators,  who  had  told  him  so.  "I  should  like  to 
consult  that  surgeon  again  about  this,  I  really 
should.  Why  should  Lancaster  want  earbobs?" 

"Perhaps  for  the  girl,"  said  Nichol. 

"Wait,"  said  Henry.  "My  aunt,  an  excellent 
reporter,  said  that  the  girl  told  her  they  were  out 
of  date.  There,  Erith!  On  the  other  hand,  I 
admit  she  said  that  Lancaster  himself  admired 
them  greatly,  and  remained  looking  at  them  a 
long  time.  But  then,  so  should  I  have  done." 

"I  suppose  the  servants  are  to  be  trusted,"  said 
Nichol. 

"Of  course,"  said  Erith,  bored.    Somehow,  the 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         121 

Fleming  servants  shared  the  superiority  of  the 
Fleming  household.  They  were  utterly  above 
everything,  always. 

"There  were  other  guests,"  said  Henry. 

"We  know  the  other  guests,"  said  Erith. 

"Yes,  yes.    And  we  don't  know  Lan — " 

"Stop  using  his  name,"  said  Erith,  sharply. 
"I  hate  it.  It's  not  a  real  one,  couldn't  be.  Any- 
how, what  was  he  doing  there?" 

"There  is  that,"  said  Nichol.  "Anyone  may 
call,  though,"  he  added,  as  a  happy  idea. 

"And  we  might  know  him,"  pleaded  Henry. 
"On  my  honour,  Erith,  my  memory  now  goes 
back  such  a  little  way.  So  does  yours,  Glover. 
Think  of  it!  There  was  once  a  time,  before  all 
this  happened, — any  of  it — " 

He  put  his  hands  over  his  face. 


IV 

PRESENTLY,  they  bade  Erith  go  home  and  look 
again,  just  as  though  she  were  a  little  girl;  and 
then  the  friends  walked  out  together. 

While  they  walked  out,  Nichol  told  Henry 
that  Erith  had  met  the  man  somewhere,  that  the 
man  had  reminded  her  of  somebody,  and  had 
frightened  her.  He  put  it  like  that. 

"Oh,  sorry  I  fooled,  then,"  said  Henry,  pen- 
sive. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Nichol,  kindly. 

He  went  on,  and  told  Henry  that  Erith  had 
already  identified  the  man  in  the  shop — women's 
quickness — with  the  horse-thief:  that  she  had, 
certainly,  seen  him  again  at  the  party:  and  that 
she  had  rather  "got  him  on  the  brain."  The 
man,  Nichol  thought,  might  be  "out"  to  worry 
her:  to  tease  her, — personally.  How  was  that? 

"Low,"  said  Henry,  very  absent. 

Well,  Erith  thought  he  was  that:  she  was  a 
pretty  good  judge.  "She  used  the  word  'danger- 
ous,' the  first  time,"  said  Nichol,  ruminating. 

122 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         123 

He  was  an  awfully  good  witness, — steady: 
better  than  Henry's  aunt. 

"Did  you  see  him?"  said  Henry. 

"Oh,  just  looked  over  the  lad,  the  way  you  do. 
I  thought  him  pretty  fair,  I  must  say.  And  he's 
a — a — ghastly  good  rider,"  added  Nichol. 

"You  think  he  is  the  same  man,  then?" 

They  agreed  that  it  was  likely. 

"Well  now,  if  he's  out  to  frighten  Erith,  he 
deserves — anything." 

"Anything,"  said  Nichol:  but  "something" 
was  evidently  in  his  mind. 

"Erith's  sort  is  not  easily  frightened,"  they 
presently  said  simultaneously. 

"Go  and  find  little  Lancaster  for  me,  would 
you?"  said  Henry,  at  parting.  "I  want  to — 
thank  him,  for  Titus;  I  am  just  going  down 
there  to  see  about  it  all,  to-night." 

Henry  went  "down  there,"  to  Wicken,  where 
he  was  always  pleased  to  go,  and  got  a  very  good 
portrait  of  the  criminal  out  of  Chase.  Chase  had 
also  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  the  crim- 
inal, but  rather  late.  Chase  did  all  things  late, 
being  Berkshire,  but  he  was  an  excellent  groom 
and  a  good  witness,  like  Nichol.  Henry  learnt 


124  MADAM 

that  the  young  stranger  had  "walked  about  the 
stable  as  if  he  had  known  it" :  also  that  he  had 
hung  about  as  though  he  wanted  to  be  looked  at, 
rather  than  the  other  way.  "That  may  have  been 
'is  actin',"  said  Chase,  gravely.  But  his  ruminat- 
ing Berkshire  eyes,  expectant  of  a  solution,  were 
on  Henry.  He  was  a  very  good  witness  indeed. 

Finally,  Mr.  Wicken  was  shown  his  own  card, 
at  which  he  smiled,  thoughtfully.  He  knew  it  so 
well.  He  had  debated  so  long,  before  he  had 
written  it 

"That's  the  very  ticket,"  he  said,  frivolously, 
pocketing  it:  Chase  saw  the  joke,  as  he  thought, 
and  laughed  at  it,  about  an  hour  afterwards. 
They  all  knew,  of  course,  that  Mr.  Henry  was  a 
funny  one :  but,  as  they  would  have  to  bear  with 
it,  for  ages  to  come,  they  put  up  with  it. 

After  that,  Henry  had  a  long,  close,  intimate 
and  earnest  talk  with  Titus:  and  this  was  the 
most  productive  proceeding,  of  anything  he  did. 

It  occurred  in  a  clean,  dark  stable,  with  a  little 
loophole  to  the  sky,  inspiring.  It  was  the  old 
stable,  too,  pre-war:  the  one,  in  his  gay  and  gal- 
lant days,  that  Henry  had  known. 

He  wondered,  he  said  to  Titus,  how  he  could 
lark  about  with  a  person  like  Nichol,  who  was 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         125 

in  love  with,  and  about  to  be  married  to,  the  love- 
liest girl  in  the  world.  He  knew,  he  said,  that 
Nichol  was  a  little  heavy,  and  a  trifle  tempting, 
when  it  came  to  rolling,  since  that  shape  rolled 
so  easily.  But  it  was  a  shame  to  "rouler"  him  in 
the  French  sense,  Henry  told  Titus,  all  the  same. 
It  was  too  easily  done,  with  a  man  of  that  sort, — 
if  Titus  understood  Henry:  anyone,  anywhere, 
could  so  easily  take  him  in.  He  wanted  life  to  be 
made  plain,  straightforward  riding,  for  Nichol : 
and  he  wanted  that  girl,  Erith,  to  ride  by  him 
and  make  his  happiness,  just  as  she  had  done  that 
day. 

"Humph!"  said  Titus. 

"Will  you  see  to  it,  next  time?"  said  Henry, 
fingering  him  lef  t-handedly. 

"Gr-umph  1"  said  Titus,  with  very  bright  eyes. 
"Men  like  that  call  for  it,  ever  so.  Gr-umph  I" 

"But  girls  don't,"  said  Henry. 

"Whisht  in  your  ear,  one  minute,"  said  Titus. 
"She  enjoyed  it.  Saw  her!  So  did  Amabel. 
They  laughed.  They  enjoyed  the  other  man  too, 
— thought  it  splendid." 

"So  she  would,"  said  Henry.  "So  they  would, 
the  darlings.  It  was  damned  neat,  wasn't  it, 
Titus?  I  say, — what  did  you  think  of  the  thief?" 


126  MADAM 

"Hh-rrumph!"  said  Titus,  and  whisked  his 
tail:  his  head  balancing  like  a  cork  on  the 
waters:  his  eyes  gleaming  in  the  shadow,  like 
gems. 

"Two  hands,  hadn't  he?"  whispered  Henry. 

Oh  well:  Titus  could  not  remember  if  the 
other  man  had  two  hands.  He  could  not  remem- 
ber hands  at  all,  come  to  that.  The  rest  was  all 
right. 

"What  was  his  name?"  whispered  Henry. 

"Lancaster,  he  says,"  whispered  Titus. 

"Rubbish!"  returned  Henry,  laying  his  head 
down  foolishly  on  Titus'  neck.  "Oh,  my  beloved 
Chris!" 


V 

FRIGHTFUL  things  were  happening  in  Mrs.  Ast- 
ley's  model  family:  really  frightful  things. 
Lu's  corruption  by  evil  elements,  never  to  be 
named  between  polite  people,  was  bad  enough, 
sufficiently  shattering  to  Mrs.  Astley's  pretty 
world :  but  now  Lina,  her  own  Lina,  her  faith- 
ful attendant  and  confidante  (Mrs.  Astley  being 
the  confider)  was  being  drawn  within  the  whirl- 
pool,— so  Lu  said. 

Mrs.  Astley  had  thought,  at  least,  the  dear 
girls  could  be  friendly,  while  she  was  so  ill.  She 
had  not  slept  for  a  week:  that-is-to-say,  she  had 
heard  the  birds  begin  to  sing,  every  morning.  It 
was  certainly  the  lark,  and  not  the  nightingale, 
that  Mrs.  Astley  had  heard:  for  the  reason  that 
Lina  crept  in  and  out  of  her  room  constantly, 
during  nightingale-time:  and  on  each  occasion, 
her  mother  was  deep-breathing,  peacefully. 

However,  in  the  morning,  Mrs.  Astley,  for 
very  fear,  looked  exactly  as  though  she  had 
watched  with  the  nightingales :  and  it  was  rather 

127 


128  MADAM 

hard  on  her,  at  such  a  time,  that  the  dear  girls 
could  not  keep  friends. 

Meanwhile,  the  dumb  battle,  that  of  all  is  the 
cruellest,  raged  between  the  girls.  Their  father, 
a  sensible  man,  was  very  greatly  distressed  by 
what  he  caught  of  it.  He  saw  that  Lu  was  almost 
enjoying  herself,  with  Foote  constantly  at  her 
elbow,  as  her  standard-in-warfare,  so  to  speak: 
and  that  Lina  was  the  sufferer.  He  thought  that 
Lu  was  both  pert  and  cruel  to  her  sister,  consid- 
ering all  that  Lina  had  done  for  her,  in  the  past 

Why  should  not  little  Lina,  who  worked  so 
hard,  be  taken  a  drive? 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  a  friend  likes  to  take  her!" 
said  Lu,  sarcastic:  she  had  a  splendidly  strong 
case.  It  was  unlucky  that  Lancaster's  doings  so 
rapidly  became  public  property.  He  had  merely 
taken  a  girl  for  a  midday  ride,  in  an  off-time,  and 
it  was  noised  about  London.  At  least  it  reached 
Lu,  who  was  on  the  watch,  quite  easily. 

"And  after  she  had  spoken  to  me  about  him," 
said  Lu,  "so  carefully!"  She  laughed. 

"Who  is  the  man?"  said  Mr.  Astley  to  Fred 
Foote,  since  his  wife  would  not  act. 

Fred,  thankful  to  be  speaking  to  a  gentleman, 
told  him  freely. 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         129 

"Motors?"  said  Mr.  Astley,  considering. 
"Paish's  place,  did  you  say?  Do  you  think  he 
cares  for  one  of  the  girls?" 

"I  think  he  was  telling  Miss  Lina  he  didn't, 
probably,"  said  the  earnest  Foote. 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Astley,  and  adjusted  himself. 
He  had  practically  accepted  Mr.  Foote  as  a  son- 
in-law,  but  he  would  have  liked  better,  to  tell  the 
truth,  even  for  Lucy.  Not  but  what  Freddy  was 
a  very  good  sort.  You  could  not,  at  least,  find 
anything — even  ebullitions  and  oversights — 
against  him :  he  was  all  sad  propriety. 

"We  have  never,"  said  Mr.  Astley,  smiling 
faintly,  "been  used  to  do  anything  but  trust  Lina. 
It  would  be  hard  to  change." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Foote,  glowing  with  the  un- 
speakable warmth  of  his  feelings.  If  only,  he 
often  thought,  Miss  Lina  was  pretty  too.  She 
'was  good-looking:  she  was  ever  such  a  good- 
looking  girl,  at  times,  on  Sundays;  but  often, 
during  the  week,  she  was  too  "hipped"  and  pale. 

"You  leave  her  alone,"  said  Foote,  assuming 
some  possession,  to  Lucy.  "She  has  her  plans, 
and  her  thoughts  for  you.  It's  ingratitude,  to  my 
thinking,  not  to  believe  that." 

"She  cares  for  him,"  said  Lu  sharply. 


i3o  MADAM 

"All  right." 

"I  know  she  does:   only  she's  so  sly,  showing 
it.     She  must  have  done,  even  when  she  was  at 


me." 


"She  may,  for  me,"  said  Foote. 

"He  wouldn't  look  at  her.  She — she  ought  to 
know  it." 

"Maybe  she  does,"  said  Foote,  quietly.  He 
wished  Lu  would  speak  lower,  since  it  was  a 
small  house.  Besides,  there  was  her  mother  so 
ill 

"Much  more  likely  she  showed — and  then  he 
tried  to  make  her  think  so.  /  know  his  ways," 
said  Lu,  with  wasp-like  scorn. 

"I  wonder  now,  if  you  do,  Miss,"  thought 
Foote.  Out  loud  he  said — "All  they  wrant  is  for 
you  to  be  happy,  Curly-noddle," — which  was 
weak. 


VI 

OF  course  Henry  told  about  the  card  that  had 
come  with  Titus:  he  could  not  help  it,  for  com- 
edy's sake:  and  then  found  himself  "landed"  by 
Erith.  To  his  real  disturbance,  she  considered 
that  it  proved  her  suspicion,  and  the  guilt  of  the 
accused.  Whoever  had  the  card,  had  the  ear- 
bobs.  Was  it  not  patent? 

"Oh  really,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Henry. 

He  was  much  troubled  by  Erith,  by  her  looks, 
their  feverishness,  and  their  hardness  too.  Why 
should  she  be  so  utterly  determined  to  fix  the 
blame  on  the  man?  The  girl  might  equally  well 
have  annexed  the  jewels,  if  suspicions  were  about 
at  all. 

"Better  have  him  up,"  thought  Henry,  in  his 
private  depths,  and  a  lucid  interval.  "How  find 
him,  though?"  He  pondered.  The  problem 
was  really  a  bad  one,  since  of  course  he  had  cut 
off  the  police. 

"Unless  he  chooses  to  come  my  way  again," 
thought  Henry.  "Lord,  I  wish  he  would!" 

He  tried,  quietly  and  tentatively,  in  his  own 

131 


132  MADAM 

house,  and  at  Mrs.  Fleming's.  What  was  the 
girl's  name?  Nobody  knew:  Lancaster  had 
slurred  it  over,  in  introducing  her.  What  was 
her  hospital  ?  Nobody  knew.  She  had  not  men- 
tioned it,  though  she  had  mentioned  her  work. 

Henry  gave  up  the  girl.  Every  time  he 
walked  the  streets  of  London,  his  elfish  and  en- 
chanted city,  he  gave  her  up  more  completely. 
There  were  at  least  ten  girls  to  every  man  he  met, 
— the  statistics  must  be  out,  he  noted.  Five  out 
of  every  ten  had  hair  over  the  right  eyebrow,  and 
were  in  a  neat  dark  blue  costume.  And  they 
called  this  Peace, — oh,  bother!  Henry  hated 
hospitals. 

Would  Lancaster  write,  then,  he  wondered? 
Would  he  haunt  the  Wicken  stable?  He  did 
neither  thing :  he  erased  himself. 

Henry  left  it,  suddenly.  London  might  stand 
on  its  head  again,  if  left  quite  to  itself,  he 

thought Still,  nothing  of  the  sort  ever 

occurred:  the  streets  were  vertical,  fairly. 

After  an  interlude, — the  wedding  was  put  off, 
since  Erith  was  seedy, — Dr.  Ashwin  came  home 
from  foreign  parts,  and  Henry  went  down  joy- 
fully to  see  him.  Miss  Wicken  jumped,  when 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         133 

she  heard  the  fatal  name  of  Harley  Street  given 
to  the  taxicab-driver:  but,  hearing  that  of  Dr. 
Ashwin  superadded,  went  peacefully  back  to  the 
planting  of  pink  hyacinths  in  blue  pots  again. 
She  sent  her  love  to  Dr.  Ashwin's  daughter,  if 
Henry  should  happen  to  see  her. 

"I  hope  I  shan't,"  called  Henry  from  the  cab. 
"I  want  to  play  with  him  alone." 

But  alas,  what  should  occur?  Mr.  Forrest  was 
playing  with  Dr.  Ashwin.  The  doctor,  that  is  to 
say,  was  opposite-but-one,  lunching  with  Mr. 
Forrest:  so  the  Irish  Ashwin  servant  informed 
Henry. 

Henry  went  opposite-but-one,  and  found  Miss 
Astley,  dressed  as  usual,  in  her  usual  place.  He 
supposed  she  had  been  there,  intermittently, 
since  he  had  seen  her.  She  looked  poorly,  he  was 
sorry  to  see;  he  did  not  much  like  her  appear- 
ance. She  smiled,  however,  at  the  question  he 
asked :  it  reminded  her  of  his  former  visit. 

"They  are  at  lunch,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Miss 
Astley.  "They  have  so  much  to  talk  about." 

"Frightfully  doctorial?"  asked  Henry,  sitting 
on  the  table. 

"Frightfully." 

"I  won't  disturb  him,"  said  Henry  nobly.    "I 


134  MADAM 

daresay  his  daughter  is  opposite-but-one.    I'll  go 

over  and  call  on  her.    Shall  I?" 

• 

Miss  Astley,  still  smiling,  allowed  it.  Henry 
sat  on  the  table  a  little  longer,  thinking. 

"I  did,"  he  said  dreamily,  "so  want  to  tell  him 
Titus :  but  she  will  do." 

He  went  over  and  called:  but  Dr.  Ashwin's 
daughter  was  missing:  in  her  own  house,  for  she 
was  married.  Issuing  depressed,  Henry  saw 
Miss  Astley  also  issuing,  presumably  for  her 
lunch.  At  once  he  had  a  saving  idea,  and  in- 
stantly acted  on  it. 

"Miss  Astley,"  he  said,  when  he  had  caught 
her  up,  "do  you  mind  my  telling  you  Titus? 
He's  a  story  of  mine.  He's  better,  since  Mr. 
Forrest  heard  him,  and  even  then  I  threatened 
to  tell  you  because  Mr.  Forrest  was  so  ungrate- 
ful." 

Miss  Astley  agreed,  with  the  same  smile  he 
had  expected;  she  was  an  awfully  jolly  girl, — 
and  London  personified.  She  had  just  the  hat 
Henry  would  have  thought  of  her,  last  time  he 
was  on  her  traces :  which  was  really  not  so  very 
long  ago. 

"Did  anyone  ever  take  you  out  to  lunch  like 
this?"  asked  Henry,  presently.  "I  begyourpar- 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         135 

don,  what  an  impudent  question!  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  bore  you."  He  was  silent  for  a  long  time, 
while  Miss  Astley  decided  on  her  lunch. 

Presently,  as  Miss  Astley  ate, — wisely,  he  no- 
ticed, but  not  too  well, — he  began  Titus.  To  his 
delight,  she  was  amused.  Branching  out  a  little, 
he  proceeded  with  Titus,  and  she  began  to  look 
graver:  she  even  glanced  at  him  once  or  twice, 
Henry  noticed,  as  though  to  see  if  he  were  telling 
the  truth.  Girding  himself,  (while  she  took  to 
cheese)  he  began  the  last  part  of  the  Tale  of 
Titus, — entitled,  of  course,  "How  Titus  Came 
Home." 

"Did  you  tell  Mr.  Forrest  all  this?"  asked 
Miss  Astley  quite  gaily,  at  this  point.  Henry 
noted  that  she  drank  coffee,  not  tea. 

"No,"  said  Henry.  "None  ever  heard  the  fol- 
lowing but  you,  Miss  Astley.  Aren't  you  ex- 
cited?" 

"Yes, — but  I  wish  you  would  eat  something," 
said  this  surprising  girl. 

So  he  told  the  end  of  Titus,  including  by  the 
way  Chase's  able  portrait  of  the  man.  He  did 
not  rest  on  that,  as  unimportant :  but  somehow  it 
came  through,  as  Henry  remembered  Chase's 
countenance,  and  his  Berkshire  jargon, — which 


I36  MADAM 

had  been  so  great  a  change  from  London,  and 
especially  Oxford  Circus,  that  you  could  find 
nothing  more  opposite :  so  he  said.  It  was  really 
rather  amusing,  even  to  himself.  His  technique 
in  talking,  by  this  time, — and  in  Titus  especially, 
— was  uncommonly  good. 

She  did  not  laugh,  as  he  hoped,  at  the  wedding- 
card  ;  she  had  again  turned  a  little  grave,  above 
her  coffee.  Henry,  with  a  sudden  idea,  ordered 
her  a  liqueur. 

"Oh,  really,  I  never  do,"  said  Miss  Astley,  ter- 
ribly startled.  Her  gray  eyes,  not  unlike  Erith's, 
reached  his  face. 

"You  are  simply  beastly  tired,"  said  Henry, 
leaning  forward.  "Why  ever  do  you  allow  me 
to  go  on  gassing  like  this?" 

"I  like  it,"  she  said.  "I  love  it,  Mr.  Wicken. 
It's  wonderful  to  have  somebody  to  tell  stories, 
at  dinner.  It's  like  the  Arabian  Nights." 

Oh,  she  called  it  dinner 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  said  Henry, 
very  humbly,  "what  you  think  of  the  hero? 
Wait  a  minute.  I  don't  mean  myself,  or  my 
friend,  or  Titus :  I  mean  the  other  man." 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "I  know  him." 

"Oh,  Miss  Astley  1" Immediately,  and 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         137 

without  hesitation,  for  Henry,  London  stood 
upon  its  head.  But  he  kept  control  of  himself. 
"I  say,"  he  snapped  to  the  attendant,  "why  don't 
you  bring  that  brandy?" 

She  said  she  might  be  wrong.  Henry  was  sure 
she  was  not.  He  was  morally  certain  she  was 
never  wrong,  in  anything. 

"Could  you  put  a  face  to  him  for  me?"  he  en- 
treated. 

She  tried  hard,  but  she  could  not:  that  was 
evident.  It  ,was  a  most  wonderful  thing,  to 
Henry,  to  see  the  light  from  beyond  that  love 
brought  to  this  London  girl's  face.  Of  course  it 
was  that:  nothing  else  in  the  world,  Henry  con- 
ceived, could  make  a  clever  girl  so  stupid.  It 
was  true,  Erith  had  never  been  stupid  like  this, 
still— 

"He  went  out  a  little  with  my  sister,"  she  said, 
"if  it  is  the  same.  But  it  must  be.  He  told  me, 
in  joke,  he  had  taken  a  horse." 

"Oh,  isn't  it  wonderful?"  said  Henry.  "I 

think,  Miss  Astley,  we  were  born  to  meet 

But  it  wasn't  a  joke.  He  did,  seriously,  take 
Titus." 

"He  told  me  he  was  a  rider." 


138  MADAM 

"Of  course  he  is.    Titus,  also,  told  me  so." 

"He — drives  cars,"  she  supplied. 

"By  George! — what  a  waste  of  him!  Please 
go  on,  if  you  can,  possibly."  But  he  had  to  wait. 

"I  think  he  is  very  clever,  and  rather — 
naughty!  I  am  afraid  he  is  rather — an  anarchist. 
Isn't  that  the  word?" 

"He  doesn't  go  to  League-of-Nations  meet- 
ings," said  Henry.  "Wretched  fellow!  Can 
you  tell  me  where  he  lives?" 

She  could  not.  "But  I  could  find  out.  Shall 
I  find  out  for  you?"  said  Caroline. 

"Rather!  Make  a  note  of  it.  Do  let  me  see," 
said  Henry,  leaning  over,  "how  you  make  a 
note." 

She  laughed,  and  let  him  look.  It  relieved 
her  wonderfully,  he  could  see,  to  take  a  note- 
book and  pencil  in  hand.  She  wrote  down — 
"Mousie." 

"That's  what  they  call  him.  I  like  it  better 
than  the  other  name, — because,  you  know,  I  don't 
think  that  is  real." 

"I  know  it  is  not,"  thought  Henry.  He  did 
not  say  so,  because  why  should  he?  Things,  in 
this  happy  atmosphere  of  penny-plain  London, 
did  themselves.  There  was  a  long  interlude 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         139 

while  Henry  thought,  gazing  upon  Miss  Astley, 
who  was  finishing  her  liqueur.  Somebody  had 
found  it,  though  it  was  not,  it  appeared,  on  the 
premises.  Everyone  in  this  place,  including  the 
girl  at  the  desk,  was  interested  and  touched  by 
his  attitude,  leaning  forward,  hands  clasped  be- 
neath his  chin.  In  one  of  Henry's  places,  where 
liqueurs  are  commoner,  nobody  would  have  no- 
ticed, probably. 

"Do  you  admire  him  for  these  tricks,"  he 
asked,  with  frightful  suddenness. 

"No, — I  wish  he  wouldn't,"  she  said. 

"You're  the  first  woman  I've  told  it  to,  who 
doesn't  admire  him,"  said  Henry.  "It's  one  to 
the  surgeon,  Miss  Astley.  He  guessed  you 
wouldn't  admire  the  silly  young  devil.  He 
thinks  such  a  fearful  lot  of  you." 

"Mr.  Forrest  does?"  She  coloured  pink  with 
pleasure, — and  when  they  were  talking  about  the 
other  man!  Henry  thought  her  the  most  won- 
derful girl.  He  exaggerated,  ridiculously,  as  in 
a  roseate  mist,  everything  about  her, — but  that 
was  natural.  She  was  London  personified :  and 
London  is  such  a  rosy-misted,  fairy-like,  frolic- 
some little  town.  Clashing  bells  in  the  City 
spires — Camelot  itself  was  nothing  to  London; 


140  MADAM 

or  rather,  it  was  London,  probably,  in  the  days 
when  the  lovely  Thames  and  little  more  was  visi- 
ble. The  valley-mists,  of  course,  always 

"I  am  infinitely,  infinitely  obliged  to  you,  Miss 
Astley,"  said  Henry,  rising.  "You  have  done 
more  for  me  even  than  Dr.  Ashwin  would. 
Coming  from  the  East,  you  see,  he  might  have 
liked  Titus,  undoctorially;  but  he  couldn't  have 

put  his  finger  on  the  man At  least,  I 

don't  think  he  could." 

"I  shouldn't  be  too  sure  of  it,"  smiled  Miss 
Astley.  (Much  the  better  for  the  liqueur,  she 
was.)  "Oh,  I  wish  you  had  seen  him  to-day, — 
he  is  so  nice!" 

"I  prefer,"  said  Henry,  as  he  swept  up  the  bill 
by  sleight-of-hand,  "my  Lancaster." 


VII 

MlSS  ASTLEY,  with  her  note  of  Mr.  Wicken's 
wants  in  hand,  applied  to  Fred  Foote,  of  course, 
— the  end  of  the  chain  that  led  to  Mousie. 

"Well,"  said  melancholy  Foote,  "there's  where 
he  lives,  and  where  he  works :  they're  different." 

"Exactly,"  she  said. 

"Where  he  works  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Foote. 
It  proved  to  be  "Paish's  place":  that  is,  a  very 
smart  West-end  automobile  and  aeroplane- 
centre,  an  excellent  reference  in  itself. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  he  lives?"  she  said. 

"Well,"  said  Foote  again :  and  looked  at  her. 
Straightway  Miss  Astley  met  his  eyes.  "To  say 
truth,  Lina," — he  called  her  now  by  her  name, — 
"it's  a  poorish  place.  A  low  quarter,  to  say 
truth :  I  mean,  for  the  likes  of  him." 

"Not  respectable?" 

"Oh  well,  come  to  that,  that  depends  how  you 
live,  doesn't  it?  It's  one  of  those  lodging-houses, 
Eric  says.  I'm  not,"  added  careful  Freddy,  "an- 
swering you  on  my  own  experience,  I  ought  to 

141 


i42  MADAM 

say."  For  of  course  he  saw,  by  Lina's  manner 
and  her  notebook,  that  this  was  business. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Astley,  her  head  lowered. 
"Has  Mr.— Eric  been  there?" 

"Oh  yes, — oh  yes!  Eric'd  back  him,  any- 
where :  though  he's  not  of  his  way  of  thinking, 
actually.  Eric,"  proceeded  Foote,  cheering, 
"has  got  a  good  place  in  the  country,  and  that. 
His  father  is  rich." 

"Mr.  Lancaster  is  not  rich,  then?" 

Again,  Foote  was  silent.  Once  he  had  been 
accused  of  being  a  tell-tale, — nay  twice,  since 
Eric  also  had  hinted  it;  and  that  is  a  painful 
charge  for  a  melancholy  man. 

"Shall  I  put  you  onto  Eric,  Lina?"  he  said. 

Miss  Astley,  with  her  instinct  for  the  first- 
hand, as  distinct  from  all  the  other  hands,  in 
business,  said  that  it  might  be  best. 

She  was  put  "onto"  Eric, — not  by  telephone: 
Foote's  image  was  misleading.  She  was  put  onto 
him  by  post.  Eric  (whose  name  proved  to  be 
Lester)  replied  from  his  country  place,  also  in 
business-style,  that  he  regretted  to  have  to  en- 
quire who  it  was  that  wanted  his  friend's  ad- 
dress: because  Mr.  Lancaster  interviewed  at  the 
office,  usually:  Foote  reassured  him,  somehow: 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         143 

and  Eric  replied  forthwith  with  the  requisite 
place,  number,  and  street  in  London.  He  told 
Foote,  however,  who  told  Lina,  that  if  it  was 
ladies  and  such,  they  had  better  not  go  down 
there.  Mouse  was  easily  fed-up  with  it:  and  as 
for  'tother,  she  had  had  too  much  of  that  sort  of 
thing,  already. 

Miss  Astley  thought  long;  she  thought  for 
Mousie,  which  was  a  thing  she  often  did,  almost 
unconsciously,  nowadays.  Then  she  gave  Mr. 
Wicken  the  official  address,  only:  with  a  gentle 
apology.  Then  she  made  a  secret  determination, 
with  set  teeth,  that  she  would  go  down  to  that 
lodging-house,  whatever  it  was,  and  see  the  girl 
herself.  Had  he  not  asked  her  to  do  so,  long 
since?  If  now,  she  was  turned  out,  on  arrival,  it 
was  no  more  than  she  deserved. 

She  could  do  nothing,  in  any  matter,  till  the 
week's  end ;  but  the  resolution,  strengthening  her 
soul,  helped  her  wonderfully.  The  real  Mousie 
seemed  such  a  different  figure  to  her,  from  the 
hero  in  Henry's  tale.  It  was  the  real  one  she 
cared  for:  the  one  who  had  answered  her  ques- 
tions, with  his  fixed  brows,  and  blood-shot  eyes, 
in  the  car.  Not  the  other, — that  was  nothing: 
that  might  even  be  Mr.  Wicken's  imagination, 


144  MADAM 

largely.    One  always  allowed  for  the  jesting  of 
leisured  people, — they  had  the  time. 

Henry,  simply  delighted,  applied  to  Paish's. 

Paish's  Autos  and  Aeroplanes,  a  go-ahead  firm 
patronised  by  half  Henry's  friends,  and  which  he 
had  visited  countless  times  with  his  colleagues, 
— how  dreamlike! — knew  Lancaster.  He  was 
not  "around"  on  the  day  when  Henry  called,  that 
was  all.  Paish's  were  rather  sulky  on  the  subject 
of  Lancaster,  referring  to  him  in  snaps,  and  then 
shutting  their  jaw.  He  had  been  twice  warned 
of  late  for  furious  driving,  and  was  inclined  to 
vex  the  firm  by  what  the  firm  called  "buying" 
them, — what  Henry  translated  as  "airs."  In- 
deed, considering  all  that  Paish's,  in  quite  a  short 
time,  said  and  implied  about  this  "hand"  of 
theirs,  it  was  rather  marvellous  that  they  kept 
him  on;  but  for  a  supposition  which  Henry  was 
convinced  was  the  key  to  Paish's, — that  he  was 
a  simply  topping  workman. 

Of  course,  Henry  had  always  known  that 
young  Lancaster  would  be. 

"How  did  he  come  to  you?"  said  Henry,  hav- 
ing the  chance. 

"Lost  his  nerve  in  the  Air  Force." 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         145 

i 

"How  was  that?" 

"Trouble,  I  guess." 

"I  presoom,"  said  Henry,  involuntarily,  "he 
shows  no  lack  of  nerve,  nowadays?" 

"Well!"  said  the  firm  with  finality.  They 
clamped  their  jaw.  Whence  Henry  derived  an 
odd  impression  that,  to  Paish's  all-seeing  eye, 
little  Lancaster  was  a  thought  nervous. 

They  were  altogether  a  wonderful  composite 
personality,  Paish's;  they  were  also  cleaner, 
more  courtly,  and  more  creased  in  the  legs  than 
anything  Henry  had  ever  seen, — far  from  Lon- 
don personified, — anything  but  it.  They  would 
buy  Britain,  and  Europe,  he  was  convinced,  in 
no  time:  and  he  left  them  impressed  and  hum- 
bled ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  no  nearer  to  Lancaster. 

Miss  Astley,  firm  in  her  resolve,  applied  to  the 
other  address  that  Eric  had  given  her:  but  not 
before  something  had  happened  that  everybody 
might  have  guessed. 

But  even  Henry,  with  all  his  instinctive  knowl- 
edge of  London's  little  tricks  upon  her  citizens, 
did  not  think  of  it. 


VIII 

"MY  own  boy!"  said  Mona,  being  at  leisure. 

Mona  had  complained  that  Mousie  was  de- 
serting her,  that  she  was  useless  to  all  men,  and 
society  at  large,  and  suggested  several  unoriginal 
ways  to  end  her  life. 

Wherefore  he  came  and  read  in  her  room, 
when  he  returned  from  work:  and  then  she  was 
more  tiresome  than  ever.  She  left  the  baby, 
which  generally  interested  her,  and  hung  about 
his  neck,  and  addressed  him  as  above-mentioned  ; 
presumably,  when  he  was  reading  Chris's  litera- 
ture, he  looked  like  Chris.  How  to  reconcile 
study  and  Mona  would  have  been  a  problem  even 
to  the  long-experienced ;  it  had  begun  to  look,  to 
Mousie,  uncommonly  like  choosing  between 
them  once  for  all,  when  the  baby  fell  ill. 

This  solved  part  of  the  problem,  temporarily: 
but  he  had  not  long  the  leisure  to  read.  She 
made  a  fearful  fuss,  as  he  might  have  expected. 
Jock,  Mona's  son,  was  healthy  like  Mona,  and 
the  gods,  in  any  of  her  lives,  had  never  sent  her 
such  a  wicked  affliction  before. 

146 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         147 

Mousie  got  her  a  doctor,  and  so  on ;  but  Mona, 
greatly  delighted  to  see  the  doctor,  proceeded  to 
do  nothing  that  he  recommended.  She  was  a  lit- 
tle like  Caroline's  mother,  in  loving  a  doctor's 
visit,  simply  for  its  importance,  and  the  reassur- 
ance it  presented  that  the  patient  (Mrs.  Astley) 
was  not  about  to  die.  Charmed  to  hear  that  Jock 
(in  Mona's  case)  was  not  dying,  but  behaving 
like  multitudes  of  babies  previously,  she  man- 
aged to  forget  most  of  the  doctor's  instructions, 
and  to  ignore  his  medicines,  beyond  enthusias- 
tically applying  the  first  dose.  Of  this  Jock,  who 
had  all  Chris's  spirit,  emitted  the  greater  part; 
whence  Mona  argued  to  Mousie  that  it  must  be 
bad  for  him.  She  could  hardly  be  persuaded  by 
Mousie  (who,  like  Christopher  himself,  had 
been  educated)  that  this  was  not  so.  He  sought 
to  see  that  the  child  had  the  medicine  at  the 
proper  times;  because,  in  the  army,  doctors' 
orders  are  regarded :  and  also,  it  was  down  in  his 
books.  Whenever  he  interfered  with  Jock, 
Mona  pulled  him  about  and  made  faces  at  him: 
not  however,  in  the  original  way.  She  forgot 
that  he  was  her  "own  boy,"  utterly:  and  treated 
him  like  a  cross  between  an  excellent  errand-boy, 
and  a  rather  hard-worked  husband.  He  was 


i48  MADAM 

quite  used  to  this,  and  had  played  the  part  even 
in  Christopher's  lifetime;  merely  as  errand-boy, 
Mousie,  with  five  elder  brothers,  most  of  them 
heavy-handed,  could  give  any  self-conscious  lit- 
tle Scout  in  London  points. 

But  just  when  Mona's  cruel  cross,  owing  to 
doctor  and  little  brother  together,  was  crushing 
her  rather  less,  she  was  again  most  wickedly  in- 
jured; for  her  little  brother  himself  was  reft 
from  her.  The  police  came 

The  sort  of  thing,  in  Mona's  experience,  was 
not  undreamt  of:  still,  the  police  were  the  po- 
lice; she  was  rather  ashamed  of  Mousie  when 
she  heard.  She  heard,  merely,  because  the  police 
came  to  his  lodging,  which  was  not  hers:  and  at 
an  hour  when  they  were  sure  of  finding  him, 
which  was  also  the  hour  when  she  was  putting 
Jock  to  sleep.  Before  Mona,  loyal  though  ag- 
grieved, had  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  her  baby 
to  its  fate,  and  go  and  abuse  the  arm  of  justice, 
the  arm  had  gone  away  again,  Mousie  in  its  em- 
brace. He  left  a  note  to  say  he  would  probably 
come  back  to  her,  shortly. 

Returning  breathless  from  her  short  excursion, 
Mona  found  the  neighbours  inquisitive,  Jock 
rending  the  atmosphere  with  screams,  and 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         149 

Mousie  not  there  to  walk  about  with  him,  over 
one  shoulder,  while  he  studied  one  of  Chris's 
books  in  the  other  hand.  He  did  not  return  to 
her  all  night;  and  Mona,  easily  moved,  began  to 
be  sorry  that  she  had  flouted  his  views  about  the 
baby;  because  first,  Jock,  so  screaming  persist- 
ently, would  probably  die,  for  want  of  a  dose 
that  he  would  agree  to  take,  in  the  proper  quan- 
tity, at  the  right  time;  and  secondly, — of  course! 
— she  loved  Mousie;  not  as  her  "own  boy,"  nor 
as  her  hardworked  husband,  nor  as  anything  of 
that  sort:  but  as  Chris's  little  brother,  who  had 
first  come  to  her  with  a  message  in  the  country, 
and  been  kissed  for  it,  at  twelve  years  old. 

The  result  of  all  this  was  that  Mona,  who  had 
had  little  sleep,  owing  to  real  motherly  misery 
and  anxiety,  both  for  Mousie  and  Jock,  and  for 
herself  a  recurrence  of  haunting  dread,  was  in  a 
terribly  bad  temper  when  the  kind  lady  called, 
and  very  nearly  turned  her  out  again,  on  sight. 
The  kind  lady  asserted  that  she  had  been  sent  by 
Mr.  Lancaster,  but  this  Mona  did  Mousie  the 
justice  of  not  believing.  Mona  never  believed 
more  than  half  anything  that  a  kind  lady, — even 
such  a  young,  simple  and  pale  one, — said.  One 
has,  in  these  things,  to  make  a  principle. 


IX 


MlSS  ASTLEY  and  Mr.  Wicken  each  had  a  mes- 
sage from  the  central  Police-Station,  on  the  same 
day.  Miss  Astley's  coming  to  Harley  Street,  ran 
as  follows : — blotted  a  bit  but  quite  legible.  (He 
did  not  use  the  word  "police,"  of  course:  it 
would  have  been  rash,  with  employers  about,  and 
he  took  care  of  that.) 

"Dear  Madam.  Our  force  have  got  me,  but 
am  allowed  to  write.  Cannot  say  what  it  is 
about,  but  think  I  will  make  good  all  right. 
Could  you  call  on  Miss  Faraday, — Court, — 
Street,  St.  Pancras,  soonish,  if  you  are  free  that 
is.  The  child  is  seedy,  no  danger.  Hope  your 
sister  all  right,  sorry.  Sincerely  yours,  D.  Lan- 
caster." 

Even  in  her  shock,  which  was  considerable, 
since  nothing  is  more  awful  to  Miss  Astley  than 
the  police,  she  noted  in  reading,  not  only  the  di- 
rections, but  the  D.  Perhaps  she  had  lately,  in 
her  odd  hours,  and  the  nightingale-watches  of 
the  night,  been  trying  to  fit  a  name  to  him;  one 

150 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         151 

really  could  not  quite  answer  for  Miss  Astley, 
out  of  worktime. 

To  Henry,  Mousie  sent  a  gentlemanly  mes- 
sage,— thoroughly  gentlemanly,  right  up  in 
Erith's  realm  of  the  exquisite :  of  the  sort  Henry 
had  received  dozens  of,  in  and  since  his  Uni- 
versity day,  in  war  and  out  of  war,  from  his 
upper-cut  acquaintance, — ladies  too. 

It  consisted  of  the  following: 

"Would  you  mind  bailing  me?  Lancaster- 
Lane." 


X 


"MOTT,  you  little  ass!"  said  Henry. 

Mr.  Lancaster's  police-court  cell  was  not  par- 
ticularly inspiring:  he  had  got  through  with  it, 
all  that  was  best  of  it,  some  time  before.  He  had 
often  longed  (ideally)  to  be  lagged,  in  order  to 
see  what  these  places  are  like, — such  are  our  re- 
formers :  and  he  thought,  during  the  first  hour 
or  two  after  the  authorities  had  snubbed  him,  of 
heaps  of  possible  improvements  in  central  police- 
court  cells  and  premises,  during  the  Coming 
Time. 

But  Mousie,  a  quick  thinker,  got  through  with 
that  part,  and  a  worse  time  came, — far  worse. 
He  loathed  confinement:  it  wrecked  him;  and 
it  might  be  in  front  of  him,  for  all  he  knew.  The 
blind  face  of  authority,  turned  to  his  questions, 
haunted  the  fancy.  Other  discomforting  shapes 
arose,  striking  sparks  out  of  his  brain,  when 
he  shut  his  eyes  against  the  heavy  blackness: 
Mona,  with  the  child,  and  the  medicine  un- 
guarded   Paish,  trap-jawed,  "on  the 

make,"  like  himself, — very  well!....  Miss 

152 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         153 

Erith  Fleming,  settled  in  the  saddle  by  a  lover's 
hands, — where  had  he  seen  her?  Oh,  bother 

it! Foote,  the  harlequin,  defending  Lu, 

attacked, — no,  it  was  really  intolerable!  Lina 
swam  about  his  sickening  senses,  but  he  dared 
not  clutch  at  her.  He  ventured  not  to  think  of 
Henry  Wicken  either,  till  he  came. 

When  he  came,  Mousie  lifted  his  head:  for  it 
had  been  hanging  lower  and  lower  during  the 
long  hours  that  no  nightingale  relieved  for  him: 
and  had  at  last  collapsed  upon  his  arms. 

But  he  had  not  expected,  cautious  though  he 
was,  the  effect  that  Henry,  in  the  flesh,  would 
have  upon  him.  All  the  world  in  front,  for 
which  he  planned,  fell  aside  and  vanished:  and 
all  the  sights,  sounds  and  smells  of  the  Wicken 
grounds  and  stable,  before  anything  had  hap- 
pened, came  back.  The  smell  of  a  stable-yard 
in  the  hot  springtime, — the  unspeakable  smell: 
the  pigeons  in  the  straw  with  their  silly  lurch, 
and  croon,  and  self-conscious  bridling:  the 
horses'  kind  faces  above  the  half-doors :  and 

Chris Instantly,  behind  Henry,  came 

Chris:  behind  him,  along  with  him,  pushing  to 
his  elbow;  Mousie,  who  had  been  wanting  a 
brother  considerably  during  the  night-watches, 


154  MADAM 

(for  nothing  ever  replaces  a  brother)  broke 
down. 

"Of  all  the  people  in  the  world  I  have  most 
wanted  to  meet,"  said  Henry.  "You  have  been 
avoiding  me,  Mott." 

Mott  supposed  so,  sheepish:  for  he  did  not 
like  crying.  He  had  been  forced  to  cry  when 
Christopher  bullied  him,  in  the  old  days,  at 
times ;  Chris  was  never  really,  thoroughly  kind 
to  him  again,  until  he  had. 

"Tell  me  about  this,"  said  Henry,  presently. 
Henry's  penny-plain  manner  was  perfect;  of 
course,  all  his  real  acquaintance  knew  it  to  be  so. 
Also,  he  was  much  older  than  Mott,  older  than 
Chris,  even:  so  that  such  authority  was  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world. 

Mott  told,  what  he  could :  at  least,  he  sketched 
to  Henry  the  charge ;  it  was  not  furious  driving, 
it  was  not  relics  of  Titus,  nor  an  aristocratic 
drinking-bout  with  window-breaking  attached; 
it  was  not  anything  Henry  had  thought  it  possi- 
bly could  be,  in  the  case ;  it  was  something  Mott 
was  supposed  to  have  "picked  up"  in  a  private 
house:  stolen,  he  added. 

"What  house?"  said  Henry,  stirring. 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        155 

"Miss  Fleming's,"  said  Mott.  His  lids 
dropped,  "I  looked  her  up,  on  a  Sunday  out — " 

"You  were,"  announced  Henry,  "an  awfully 
silly  young  ass." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  asked  Mott. 

"I  don't  know,  the  least,"  said  Henry.  "Heaps 
of  people  call  on  Mrs.  Fleming,  utterly  un- 
known, whom  she  wishes  at  the  end  of  the  earth. 
Now,  you  were  popular.  My  aunt  called  you  a 
dear  boy."  Mott  did  not  smile,  but  he  gleamed, 
in  just  the  old  way:  Henry  remembered  it.  H« 
had,  once,  been  a  sedate,  clean-collared  boy,  with 
a  pious  mother,  who  instigated  respect  in  all  her 
sons,  from  infancy.  They  did  not  always  respect 
her,  Henry  remembered,  (with  the  exception  of 
George) — but  she  instigated,  hard. 

"What  did  you  take?"  said  Henry.  "I  mean, 
except  my  horse:  of  course  I  know  you  took 
that." 

"Yes,"  said  Mott:  flat  confession  in  a  word: 
Henry  signed  with  it  Titus'  document.  "I  took 
nothing  else  I  can  remember,  except  a  liberty." 

"You  did  take  something  else,"  said  Henry. 
"Think!" 

"Oh,"  said  Mott,  looking  tired.  "I  took  a 
card." 


156  MADAM 

"Why  did  you  take  the  card?"  said  Henry. 

"Hadn't  liked  the  look  of  it,"  explained  Mott. 

"But  my  aunt  hadn't  liked  the  look  of  it:  and 
she  left  it  there,  since  Mrs.  Fleming's  hand  had 
placed  it  on  the — the  earrings.  Had  you  remem- 
bered what  it  lay  on,  Mr.  Lancaster?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mott.  "I  remember  them, — I 
liked  them  a  bit.  I  didn't  take  them,"  he  added. 

"Did  you  want  them,  for  anybody?"  asked 
Henry.  "Never  mind,  I  was  born  impertinent. 
At  least  you  didn't  take  them, — hey?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Mott!"  said  Henry  reproachfully.  Again 
Mott  gleamed.  Neither  he,  nor  Chris,  had  ever 
called  Henry  "sir,"  except  in  public.  In  public 
they  did  it  beautifully,  both  of  them :  especially 
Chris. 

"Well,  you're  examining  me,"  pointed  out 
Mott.  "I'd  like  to  have  taken  them,  along  with 
the  card:  that's  a  fact.  You're  welcome  to  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Henry.  "Now  I  shan't  ask 
you  why,  because  I  believe  I  know.  You  can't 
stand  my  giving  things  to  Miss  Fleming.  The 
card  you  considered  a  lie,  or  else  derogatory  to 
my  manly  dignity.  Didn't  you?  I  know  you, 
Mott." 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         157 

"Derogatory,"  trotted  through  Mott's  sleepy 
mind,  syllable  by  syllable.  He  admired  Henry's 
language,  and  had  always  taken  notes. 

"But  who  the  devil  put  the  police  on  you?" 
thought  Henry,  watching  him,  his  brow  bent. 
"It  was  a  rotten  shame  to  put  the  police  on  you, 
keep  you  mewed  up  here  for  a  night,  Chris's 

brother "  He  forgot  that  he  had  himself, 

for  a  week,  put  the  police  on  Mott.  "Hadn't  you 
a  girl  with  you?"  he  said  aloud.  "What  girl 
was  it?" 

"She  couldn't  have  taken  anything,"  said 
Mott.  "She's  a  silly,  but  she's  quite  straight. 
Decent  family.  I  hope  to  the  Lord  they  won't 
be  worried — "  His  brow  fixed. 

"They  shan't  be,"  said  Henry,  confident. 
"Leave  that  and  think  of  the  main  things.  It'll 
lose  you  your  place." 

Mott  assented,  easily  or  slackly.  He  could  get 
another,  he  said. 

"Sure?"  said  Henry. 

Mott,  of  course,  was  not  so  certain  he  was  sure. 
Still,  he  had  thought  all  that  out  during  the  night 
past,  naturally.  He  let  it  slide  now) 

"Have  you  been  a  good  boy,  in  your  place?" 
said  Henry. 


158  MADAM 

"I've  kept  it,"  said  Mott. 

"So  you  have.  That's  what  I  noticed — I  went 
there." 

"Did  you?    Looking  me  up?" 

Oceans  of  troubles,  thought  Henry,  still 
watching  him.  How  on  earth  to  get  at  them, 
though? — for  it  was  no  longer,  really,  the  little 
Mott  of  the  stable-yard. 

"Do  you  ever  see  your  mother? — Sister? 
Couldn't  you  call  on  Maudie?" 

"She's  ill." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that.  But  wouldn't  she  the 
more  like  to  see  you?" 

Mott  saw  it  would  have  to  come.  He  was  too 
slack  to  resist:  Henry's  interest  too  utterly  un- 
feigned to  be  resistible. 

"I  guess  I'm  too  bad  an  egg,  in  their  eyes. 
She's  been  brought  up  straight  and  pious,  you 
see.  Not  Mother's  sort,  Maudie  never  was,  but 
still—" 

"What  you'd  expect,"  said  Henry.  "Poor 
Maudie!  Pretty  girl,  wasn't  she?" 

Mott  lifted  his  brows:  her  brothers  had 
thought  so,  fairly.  It  suggested  the  next  step  to 
Henry. 

"Have  you  got  a  girl,  Mott?"    Shake  of  head. 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         159 

"Aren't  you  living  with  somebody?"  Shake  of 
head.  "Who's  the  girl  your  mother  told  us  you 
were  living  with?" 

"Mona.  You  remember  Mona  Faraday, 
market-days?  Oh,  perhaps  you  don't." 

Henry  came  to  remember  her,  though,  as  Mott 
sketched  the  points  in.  Mona  had  been  known 
less  for  her  own  beauty,  than  for  Chris's  patron- 
age. Chris  had  shown  her  about,  marked  her 
out The  past  unfolded  itself,  remade  it- 
self leaf  by  leaf,  before  his  vision ;  and  having  so 
unfolded,  as  the  leaf-sheathes  of  the  branches  do 
in  springtime,  it  presently  disclosed  a  flower: 
and  within,  that  perfect  shy  presence  of  immor- 
tality that  every  flower  holds.  Henry  was  sensi- 
tive, so  he  felt  it  more  elegantly:  but  not  more 
fully,  of  course,  than  Eric  and  Foote. 

"Chris's  child!  Oh,  Mott,— not  a  little 
Chris!" 

"Rather.  If  you  saw  him,  you  wouldn't  have 
much  doubt."  He  smiled  sidelong. 

"Good  God!  Do  you  mean  you  have  been 
keeping  them?"  He  had  risen  to  his  feet.  "You 

oughtn't, — it's  unheard-of! You  oughtn't, 

Mott." 

Mott  said  the  State  ought. 


i6o  MADAM 

Henry  said  the  State  had  been  doing  so, — but 
then,  it  was  not  Mott's  State.  He  recollected 
Christopher,  and  more  leaves  came  out.  Mott 
di'd  not  trust  the  State,  as  manifested  during  the 
recent  years:  nor  the  State's  hideous  reason  for 
preserving  children  such  as  Chris's :  nor  the  per- 
sons who  worked  under  such  a  philosophic 
scheme,  Red  Cross,  kind  ladies,  or  no.  He  had 
all  these  little  ideas,  and  sheaves  more : — but  he 
did  not  need  to  discourse  on  them  to  Henry. 
Henry,  looking  down  at  him,  and  with  the  single 
remark  about  the  State  to  work  upon,  could  make 
it  out. 

"And  your  mother  and  sister  cast  you  out  for 
that?  Curse  them!"  He  turned  aside.  "Oh, 
curse  piety — " 

"Don't  curse  Maudie's,"  said  Mott.  "Girl 
couldn't  guess  a  thing, — not  Mother's  girl. 
She'd  have  it  all  top-sided." 

"I  don't, — I  beg  your  pardon.  Tell  me,  for 
Maudie's  sake  if  you  like,  what  to  do  for  you?" 

"Bail  me  out,"  said  Mott  promptly.  "I  want 
to  go  back.  Kid's  ill,  and  that.  Do  you  mind?" 

Henry  did  not  mind,  and  he  bailed  Mott  out, 
being  a  person  of  great  influence,  when  he 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        161 

walked  amid  policemen.  He  loved  policemen 
of  all  kinds,  they  were  such  gentle  beings,  he 
said :  and  were  all  best  to  be  seen  taking  a  cup  of 
tea,  it  suited  them.  To  see  a  helmet  bending  over 
a  cup  of  tea,  the  steam  half-obscuring  the  august 
head-dress,  flashed  the  feeling  of  London  all 
through  Henry,  the  feeling  of  Old  England,  it 
gave  him,  and  the  larger  citizenship, — patriot- 
ism, probably.  He  told  Mott. 

"Don't  be  too  earnest,  Mott,"  he  said,  when 
Mott  had  nothing  whatever  to  answer,  looking 
about  the  open  street.  Open,  that  was  the  point 
of  it;  though  trouble  was  still  ahead. 

"Miss  Fleming  once  said  you  ought  to  go  to 
Oxford.  Don't,  for  heaven's  sake,  remind  me  of 
that." 

"Was  it  her  set  the  police  on  me?"  said  Mott, 
low.  He  could  not  get  upsides  with  the  thing. 

"Don't  press  me,"  said  Henry,  equally  low. 
"We'll  see  you  through  this,  anyhow.  They've 
got  nothing  against  you,  it's  farcical.  I'll  for- 
swear myself  pea-green  about  Titus,  if  neces- 
sary." 

"Thanks:  I  guess  I'll  see  myself  through, 
though,"  said  Mott,  as  he  shook  hands. 


i62  MADAM 

"He  won't  admit  that  I,  as  Wicken,  can  do  a 
thing,"  thought  Henry,  depressed,  as  he  de- 
parted. "Though  of  course  I  can,  and  of  course 
he  knows  I  can.  Blooming  little  idealist!" 


XI 

MONA  was  at  her  worst,  when  Miss  Astley 
called,  for  she  could  be  charming;  she  was 
pretty  enough  outwardly,  but  within  in  a  horri- 
bly bad  mood.  She  simply  put  off  believing  a 
word  Miss  Astley  said,  until  she  had  looked  her 
over,  and  through  and  through,  and  behaved 
with  that  blank  show  of  dulness,  absolutely  baf- 
fling, which  is  a  phase  of  sensuality,  and  almost 
as  alarming,  to  the  uninitiate,  as  the  other  limit 
of  contortions  and  screams.  Mona,  in  either 
phase,  was  mistress  of  herself  really,  and  could 
be  stopped  by  Mousie  or  anybody  who  knew. 
But  it  needed  a  man,  really,  to  stop  her  and  turn 
her  human  again ;  women  were  less  effective,  and 
as  for  ladies — 

However,  the  central  object  of  Miss  Astley's 
call  was  accomplished  on  sight;  for  she  saw  she 
would  be  able  to  tell  him,  even  from  her  own 
slight  experience,  that  the  "child"  was  practi- 
cally well.  Jock  had  a  violent  temper,  nothing 
else:  his  behaviour  was  ear-splitting.  Mona, 
afterwards,  boasted  to  Mousie  about  Jock's  early 

163 


i64  MADAM 

intelligence  in  half-deafening  the  kind  visitor: 
and  made  him  sure,  sardonically,  from  all  her 
references,  that  Miss  Astley  had  had  a  thor- 
oughly jolly  time. 

Him  she  abused,  to  the  other  side,  over- 
familiarly:  since  Mona  was  jealous,  this  was  a 
matter  of  course.  Yet  she  could  not  help  her 
habits,  and  these  betrayed  her, — "brother,"  she 
called  him.  She  said  slack  things  about  him, 
things  Miss  Astley  shrank  from  recalling  after- 
wards: but  she  repeated  brother,  brother,  quite 
cuckoo-like:  to  the  visitor's  endless  surprise. 

How  could  Mousie  be  her  brother?  The  baby 
was  like  him,  a  little  (when  it  u'ncrumpled  its 
face)  :  but  that,  to  her  groping,  seemed  no  guide 
at  all. 

That  he  lived,  not  even  in  the  house,  became 
clear  to  her  at  the  outset;  for  the  house,  and  even 
the  street,  were  different  from  the  house  and 
street  Eric  had  named.  She  guessed  he  was  near, 
by  Mona's  talk,  and  by  certain  male  properties 
in  the  room;  but  his  quarters  were  spoken  of  as 
superior;  Mousie  made  a  lot  of  money  nowa- 
days, the  visitor  heard. 

The  inference,  not  intended  for  the  visitor  to 
draw,  but  noted  by  her  in  her  collected  memory, 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         165 

was  that  Mousie  ought  to  give  a  great  deal  more 
to  Mona's  housekeeping,  than  he  did.  He  ought 
not  to  live  so  gloriously,  and  have  so  many  and 
such  distinguished  parties  of  friends.  Persons 
of  great  note  visited  Mona's  "brother,"  Miss  Ast- 
ley  was  surprised  to  hear:  people  politically 
very  lofty  in  life.  None  of  them,  nor  the  jour- 
nalists attached  to  them,  had  Miss  Astley  ever 
heard  of;  and  yet  she  read  a  very  nice  little 
paper,  every  day. 

Here  was  a  new  view  of  Mousie!  Amazing! 
She  had  never  for  a  moment  thought  of  him  as  a 
serious  political  student;  though  she  had  called 
him  anarchist  tentatively  to  Henry,  and  though 
she  recollected  too  well  how  he  had  sat  down,  at 
the  pictures,  during  "God  save  the  King."  By  a 
brilliant  inspiration,  she  related  this  incident  to 
Mona.  It  was  by  far  her  greatest  success,  for  the 
girl  lost  her  sulks,  for  a  fleeting  instant,  and 
laughed. 

"You  tell  me  that!  Why,  I  was  there, — I  re- 
member it."  Mona  did  not  so  easily  remember 
past  things,  so  it  was  triumph,  in  part,  that 
awaked  her.  "He's  a  lot  of  them,"  she  informed 
Caroline,  "but  that's  one  of  his  best  stunts,  play- 
ing a  leg  off.  I've  seen  him  do  it  better  once,  not 


1 66  MADAM 

that  time.  Oh,  girls,  how  we  shrieked!"  She 
clutched  the  cradle. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  said  Miss  Astley  calmly. 

" Why  not,  then?" 

"I  don't  like  mimicking  the  wounded,  when  he 
is  well  and  strong.  He's  one  of  the  few,"  said 
Miss  Astley. 

"I'll  tell  him,  from  you,"  sulked  Mona:  but 
she  saw  the  point:  it  was  sentimental.  Then  she 
also  saw  another  thing,  that  Mousie's  courage 
was  called  in  question :  and  flamed  up. 

"He'd  dare  to  do  it  without  that,  I'll  tell  you. 
He's  got  himself  hissed  before  now, — not  when 
I  was  there,  though."  She  looked  down  at  her 
baby's  face. 

"Oh,"  said  Miss  Astley,  and  took  it  in.  "But 
wouldn't  you  get  yourself  hissed  with  him,  if 
necessary,  Miss  Faraday?" 

"Yes,  sure."  But  her  eyes  were  uncertain. 
"Oh,  he's  a  scream,  though,"  she  murmured.  "I 
wish  he'd  come  home." 

The  light  died  out  of  her  face  that  had  been 
born  there ;  gleams  of  what  she  had  been  once, 
gay  and  dauntless,  vanished,  and  she  turned  surly 
again.  She  pretended  to  believe  that  her  visitor 
had  been  sent  by  the  police  to  ferret,  and  worry 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        167 

her:  they  would  do  that,  she  said.  Then  she 
forgot  she  had  believed  the  above,  and  grumbled, 
throwing  things  about,  as  she  tidied  the  room. 
Whatever  Mona  would  do,  for  the  next  six 
months,  was  the  burden  of  her  grumbling:  and 
painfully,  Miss  Astley  again  arrived  at  what  she 
believed. 

She  believed — in  her  fashion — her  brother 
had  been  "run  in"  for  having  revolutionary  tend- 
encies; for  knowing  this  person,  and  that  per- 
son, for  going  here  and  for  attending  there :  and 
her  personal  knowledge  of  past  cases  was  consid- 
erable. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  said  Miss  Astley,  very  much 
disturbed,  though  illuminated.  "We  are  in  Eng- 
land, Miss  Faraday!  We  are  at  Peace  now, — it 
isn't  possible." 

She  tried  to  explain  how,  by  no  conceivable 
means  in  a  free  country,  could  Mousie's  sin  be 
that. 

"Don't  know  how  you're  so  sure,"  muttered 
Mona.  "You  don't  know  all  I  know." 

Indeed,  it  was  abundantly  clear  that  Miss  Ast- 
ley did  not;  she  was  shockingly  ignorant  of  a 
whole  side  of  life,  beside  this  former  merry  red- 
cap, Miss  Faraday.  She  was  shockingly  igno- 


1 68  MADAM 

rant, — and  she  was  ignorantly  shocked.  She 
wished  she  knew  more  things  about  all  things, 
constantly;  but  then  she  had  so  very  little  time. 

She  very  well  guessed  that  he,  the  absent, 
would  have  been  disgusted  with  Mona,  for  talk- 
ing with  her  at  all  of  such  matters ;  she  thought 
for  him,  and  of  him,  a  great  deal,  travelling 
home.  (To  be  sure,  she  had  a  long  way  to  go, 
from  this  crowded  quarter  of  life,  to  her  roomy 
suburb.)  The  holy  light  of  her  love  was  quite 
unvexed  or  unshaded  by  these  later  critical  feel- 
ings. Like  Lu,  she  would  have  liked  to  "talk  to" 
Mousie  the  rebel, — that  was  what  it  came  to ;  but 
in  her  case,  largely  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
his  answers  back. 

And  he  was  that  beautiful  girl's  brother, — 
brother  to  her, — could  it  be?  He  had  called  her 
"his  girl"  on  the  day  of  the  drive :  but  oh,  he  was 
so  naughty!  Slippery,  hopeless, — whoever  had 
given  him  that  name  of  "mouse"  knew  a  thing  or 
two,  thought  Miss  Astley.  Only,  that  he  should 
try  to  hide  from  her, — from  her, — that  was  the 
odd  part.  Why  should  he, — ever? 

The  thought  of  him  knocked  her  to  and  fro, 
like  the  wind  on  the  top  of  the  omnibus ;  for,  to 
get  home  quickly  to  her  mother  from  Mona, 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         169 

Miss  Astley  had  clambered  "outside"  on  a  gusty 
night, — quite  reckless  of  her  well-trimmed  hat. 

Never  had  her  native  town,  nor  the  path  to  the 
suburbs  (which  certainly,  as  a  typical  Elfin-way, 
is  deceptive)  seemed  so  wonderful  to  her  as  this 
night  of  nights, — and  he  in  prison,  probably! 
Knocked  to  and  fro  by  a  first  passion,  the  girl  did 
not  know  herself  or  her  whereabouts:  but  she 
knew  him ! 

How  he  had  thus  come  to  her,  complete  in  ab- 
sence, she  could  not  have  guessed : — unless,  per- 
haps, by  a  certain  occasional,  level  stare  of 
interest  in  Mona  Faraday's  eyes. 

Miss  Astley  was  right  enough,  too,  her  apt  lit- 
tle business  senses  not  at  fault,  in  this  matter  of 
Mona  and  Mousie;  for  Mona  thought  her  little 
brother-in-law  a  very  great  person  at  times.  Nor 
did  she  really  think  him  like  Chris,  her  "own 
boy,"  when  closely  looked  at;  only,  while  sedu- 
lously engaged  in  getting  that  close  vision  of 
Mousie,  Mona  slopped,  and  called  him  so. 


XII 

THE  police  had  not  found  Miss  Fleming's  jew- 
ellery in  Mott's  room,  nor  upon  him;  they  had 
found  in  the  room,  though,  a  great  deal  of  very 
exciting  and  unfavourable  literature.  Stacks  of 
it,  Mott  possessed.  He  had  all  Chris's  library, 
plus  his  own,  plus  things  dear  friends,  all  un- 
aware, had  dumped  upon  him;  and  he  had  a 
simply  endless  procession  of  dear  and  slightly 
prejudicial  friends. 

"My  sakes,  you  are  a  character,"  murmured 
Henry,  at  the  hearing,  in  a  low  tone.  "I'm 
ashamed  of  undertaking  you ;  I  go  to  League-of- 
Nations  meetings,  myself." 

Mott  gleamed,  but  he  was  anxious:  and  he 
had  reason  to  be.  The  world  was  not  clear  of  the 
war-clouds  yet.  The  new  world  with  the  glass 
streets  was  not  anywhere  shining,  nor  the  faintest 
fair  promise  of  the  Coming  Time.  There  was 
nothing,  over  all  Europe, — except  perhaps  in 
one  most  beautiful  remote  city, — but  dull,  dirty 
gloom.  Matters  being  so,  Mott  had  often  men- 
tioned, to  this  and  that  friend,  when  accepting 

170 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        171 

their  favours,  what,  in  inviting  any  police-visit 
to  his  room,  he  risked.  And  he  had  it  now;  he 
had  risked  it,  shaved  it  close. 

Erith,  in  court,  was  extraordinary.  She  was  so 
ultra-clever,  quiet,  intent,  and  all  to  his  disadvan- 
tage. With  a  dainty  brush,  carefully  wielded, 
she  blackened  the  man.  Since  they  wanted  an 
enemy  of  society,  she  gave  them  one.  She  hyp- 
notised her  mother  in  her  interest :  she  threw  out 
Henry's  scheme  of  Titus  by  her  bitterness, — say- 
ing that  she  had  already  twice  seen  him  steal. 

The  magistrate  and  other  officers  looked  at  her 
closely,  though  respectfully,  of  course;  with 
Erith,  that  went  without  saying.  The  boy's  sulky 
grace  was  just  as  extraordinary  as  her  dry  de- 
termination. It  was  perfectly  plain  to  all  real 
soul-observers,  that  she  would  have  hounded  him 
into  prison  if  she  could. 

But  she  could  not:  she  built  on  air,  and  she 
built  in  ignorance  profound,  of  how  little  mere 
ill-will  can  accomplish,  even  nowadays.  She  was 
too  late:  a  year  sooner,  she  would  have  had  him 
more  surely, — so  Henry  thought.  Henry,  ex- 
ceedingly self- restrained  over  Titus,  was  helpful. 
Eric,  neatly  presenting  the  Titus-rag  from  an- 
other angle, — known  himself  to  the  racing  nog, 


172  MADAM 

— was  very  cunning  indeed.  Henry  approved 
of  Eric,  except  his  socks  and  his  tie,  which  were 
abominable.  But  what  helped  Mott  really,  and 
freed  him  ultimately,  was  the  record  of  his  fam- 
ily,— the  war- record:  such  is  Fate. 

"Five  brothers,  and  five  fallen,"  said  the  mag- 
istrate, looking  at  Mott.  "The  last  survivor." 

Mott,  into  the  hush  in  court,  said  he  had  a  sis- 
ter. What  do  sisters  matter?  The  magistrate 
ventured  on  a  gentle  jest,  women  being  so  funny; 
but  the  effect  of  his  former  remark  had  not  been 
lost,  and  he  smiled. 

When  Justice  smiles,  all  is  over.  It  was  a  pity 
the  brother  of  all  that  should  read  such  literature 
in  the  evening;  that  it  was  the  direct  conse- 
quence of  "all  that"  never  occurred  to  them  at  all. 
Henry,  gracefully,  lent  a  hand  to  justice  over  the 
formalities ;  he  had  a  gift  for  it,  and  would  make 
a  good  magistrate  himself  one  day.  He  took 
leave  of  his  police,  being  for  the  moment  some- 
what out  of  love  with  them, — since  they  had  lis- 
tened with  a  certain  look  to  Erith's  self-betrayal : 
and  then  hurried  Mott  away.  He  thought  he 
had  had  about  enough,  and  he  was  right. 

"You'd  better  go  home  and  look  again,  Erith," 
he  said,  rather  sternly. 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         173 

Erith  went  home,  but  she  never  found  the  ear- 
bobs.  She  never  wore  them,  anyhow.  And  if 
she  had  owned,  or  owned  to  them,  honestly,  she 
must  have  worn.  They  were  so  lovely,  lovely, 
lovely,  et  cetera. 


XIII 

HENRY  did  nothing  in  the  matter  of  wielding 
Wicken  influence  with  Mott's  employers,  be- 
cause, granted  on  the  one  hand  Mott,  and  on  the 
other  Paish's  Autos  and  Aeroplanes,  whom  he 
had  studied,  he  thought  it  better  left  alone. 
There  was  also  himself,  as  Wicken,  to  be  reck- 
oned in.  Henry  was  as  perceptive,  really,  in  his 
dealings,  as  Erith :  possibly  more  so  where  Lan- 
caster was  concerned;  and  he  had  a  strong  idea, 
painful,  growing  on  him,  that  Mott  would  never 
have  appealed  to  him  for  bail,  if  he  could  have 
appealed  to  Paish's,  for  instance.  But  he  sup- 
posed that  one  does  not,  in  Mott's  position,  ap- 
peal to  one's  employer  for  bail;  since  by  doing 
so,  one  appeals  simultaneously  to  be  kicked  over 
the  nearest  hedge. 

Henry,  very  thoughtful  over  all  this,  had  leis- 
ure for  thought,  because  he  fell  ill.  Being 
Henry,  he  fell  rather  badly  ill,  after  the  strain  of, 
as  it  were,  defending  Lancaster  from  Titus ;  and 
a  doctor  who  was  not  Dr.  Ashwin,  consequently 

174 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         175 

cracked  in  his  conceptions,  bade  him  lie  full- 
length  on  a  sofa  for  a  number  of  days. 

During  all  these  days,  while  people  fussed 
about  Henry,  and  his  aunt  brought  teacups,  Lan- 
caster seized  the  opportunity  to  vanish :  he  was 
lost  to  Henry  again.  And  there  he  was,  he  bit- 
terly reflected,  with  nothing  but  his  working  ad- 
dress! Why  did  he  never  remember,  when  he 
saw  people  whom  he  had  loved  long  since,  as 
Mrs.  Lane  would  say,  to  get  their  addresses? 
Miss  Astley  would ! 

Dear  Henry  improved:  so  his  aunt  told 
Nichol.  Promptly  Nichol,  for  all  he  was  to  be 
married  next  week,  came  to  his  elbow.  Was 
there  anything,  he  asked  Henry,  that  he  and 
Erith  could  do? 

There  were  lots  and  lots  of  things :  whole  lists 
that  Henry's  active  spirit,  during  the  tea-cups, 
had  compiled;  but,  he  said,  Nichol  had  his  call- 
ing and  his  hunting. 

House-hunting,  Henry  meant;  because  he 
knew  all  Nichol  and  Erith's  little  amusements. 
They  were  in  the  same  case  as  most  couples  in 
London ;  they  had  no  furnishing  to  trouble  with, 
because  they  had  no  house.  Henry  loved  the 
thought  of  it,  sometimes,  because  it  looked  like 


176  MADAM 

one  of  London's  little  games.  That  coy  little 
city,  all  built  of  houses,  simply  had  not  one  for 
Nichol  to  snatch.  All  the  same,  he  felt  for 
Nichol's  anxiety  and  Erith's  fury.  The  only  re- 
lief to  their  daily  torment,  was  that  they  were 
looking  simultaneously  for  a  car, — oh,  heaven  on 
earth! 

Paish,  in  this  connection,  had  of  course  oc- 
curred to  Henry,  Paish,  trap-jawed  and  transat- 
lantic; but  he  had  not  yet  seen  how  to  work  the 
thing.  Nichol  had  not  met  Lancaster,  to  call 
meeting,  though  Henry  could,  of  course,  intro- 
duce them  from  a  distance;  Erith  and  Lancas- 
ter, to  put  it  simply,  did  not  seem  to  get  on.  To 
proceed  with  Lancaster,  if  Henry  sent  Nichol 
alone  to  Mott  for  cars,  the  little  ass  would  think 
he  was  being  patronised.  Finally  and  convinc- 
ingly, if  Mott  had  cars  to  dispose  of,  secretly,  the 
right  sort,  he  would  have  given  them  all  to  his 
innumerable  prejudicial  friends.  That  flashy 
Eric,  whom  Henry  had  seen  in  court,  probably 
had  heaps  of  them. 

So  Henry  waited,  as  usual :  the  world  was  not 
so  very  evil,  since  he  had  found  Titus :  and  he 
bade  Nichol,  with  his  blessing,  go  hunting:  but 
call  again. 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        177 

Nichol  called  and  called,  but  Henry  had  no 
leading;  no  light,  as  Mott's  mother  would  have 
said.  Then,  behold  light  came  from  the  very 
place The  fountain-head 

Miss  Wicken  had  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Lane, 
beautifully  blackbordered,  and  neatly  written: 
smelling  of  cedar,  having  been  kept  in  the  tea- 
chest  :  exactly  like  a  dozen  other  letters  that  had 
come  before  it,  celebrating  the  day  of  her  dear 
husband's  burial,  when  first  the  pension  had  been 
paid.  Perhaps, — if  possible, — a  little  more  Bib- 
lical than  usual ;  since  Colonel  Wicken,  unbid- 
den, had  raised  the  pension  to  suit  the  expensive 
times. 

"She  mentions  Dermot,"  said  Miss  Wicken,  to 
dear  Henry  on  the  sofa. 

"Does  she  really,  aunt?  Can  I  look?"  He 
seized  it. 

"Mott,  I  hear,"  wrote  Mrs.  Lane,  right  at  the 
end,  "is  living  in  sin  at  Epsom." 

"Epsom?"  said  Henry.  "What's  he  doing 
there?"  He  bent  his  brow,  and  longed  at  once 
for  Nichol ;  for  the  one  thing  he  could  never  do 
(though  she  fagged  and  fagged)  was  to  fag  his 
aunt.  "He  has  been  sacked,  then,  bother  it! 
Serve  him  right,"  pondered  Henry. 


178  MADAM 

"In  sin,"  said  Miss  Wicken,  sadly. 

"Aunt,"  said  Henry,  "the  word  Epsom,  with 
those  people,  is  enough  for  that."  He  read  all 
the  letter,  and  threw  it  aside.  "Curse  the  woman, 
— why  can't  she  help  them?  She  has  a  fat  pen- 
sion, hasn't  she?  Aunt,  I  shall  dock  it,  one  of 
these  days !  Why  can't  I  know  what  it  is  like  to 
need  money,  Aunt?" 

"I  hope  you  never  will,  dear,"  said  Miss 
Wicken,  tenderly  finishing  a  butterfly.  She  was 
embroidering  the  most  beautiful  silken  curtains 
for  Henry's  room. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Henry.  "Oh,  Lord, — give  me 
the  Telephone-book!" 

His  aunt  (not  the  Lord)  gave  it  to  him ;  it  was 
rather  bulky  for  his  situation.  He  was  dreaming 
over  the  Telephone-book, — full,  as  it  were,  of 
faint  far  echoes  of  his  London, — when  Nichol 
occurred  once  more. 

"Nichol,  this  is  Erith's  fault.  You  have  got  to 
do  a  little  work  for  me.  Ring  up  Forrest,  in 
Harley  Street,  would  you  mind?  And  get  them 
to  enquire  from  Paish's  Aeros  and  Autoplanes, 
what's  become  of  little  Lane." 

"No  such  thing  as  an  Autoplane,"  said  Nichol. 
"And  why  ring  up  Forrest?  He's  a — " 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         179 

"Do  what  I  tell  you,"  implored  Henry.  "I 
have  thought  it  all  out.  Ask  them  to  use  their 
influence,  at  Paish's,  and  find  out  for  self  about 
Lancaster, — please  do!" 

Nichol,  having  a  great  capacity,  did  it  all 
beautifully.  Henry  could  hardly  have  done  it 
better  himself. 

"The  girl  says — "  he  began,  when  twenty  min- 
utes had  elapsed. 

"Come  on,"  said  Henry.  "Sit  down.  Isn't 
she  a  topping  girl?" 

"Aw,  well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Nichol.  "She 
has  a  head,  as  it  seems.  She  says  the  party  you 
want  has  been  transferred  to  Epsom — " 

"Transferred?" 

"M,"  said  Nichol,  "to  a  what-do-you-call-it 
motor-place.  Pinker,  she  says, — that's  Paish's 
son-in-law.  He  has  a  branch  down  there." 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,  the  old  thief !  I  mean  the  efficient 
Yankee  sportsman!  Do  you  see?"  Nichol  did 
not,  the  least,  nor  want  to ;  but  he  attended  will- 
ingly, and  what  was  more,  he  took  it  in.  Henry, 
having  time,  explained  to  him  at  length  how 
Paish,  being  what  he  was,  had  got  "onto"  all  the 
facts  their  wiliness,  and  Lane's,  had  endeavoured 
to  keep  from  him :  how  Lane  had  been  sacked 


i8o  MADAM 

from  their  great  west-end  centre,  in  dark  dis- 
grace: since  the  right  society,  in  the  person  of 
Erith,  had  been  black-balling  him.  But, — mark 
this ! — he  had  been  flung  away  by  Paish's  right 
hand,  only  to  be  neatly  caught  by  Paish's  left 
hand  at  Epsom;  which  was  an  infinitely  promis- 
ing left  hand, — go-ahead,  like  Henry's :  a  hum- 
ming, whirring,  flashing  gold-mine,  Henry 
conceived :  for  he  had  seen  it  at  work. 

"All  right,"  said  Nichol,  calming  him.  Per- 
sonally Nichol,  about  Lancaster,  was  very  calm. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Mott  is  manager,"  said 
Henry,  "since  the  son-in-law  would  have  a  bijou 
house  near  the  race-course.  Unless  he's  too 

young But  I  don't  believe  that  matters, 

to  Paish's.  I  think  our  friend, — that  is  our  As- 
sociate Paish, — believes  in  youth.  I  marked  it  in 
his  eyes,  while  he  was  speaking  angrily  of  him. 
Pepper  is  the  thing  Mott  has." 

"Ginger,"  suggested  Nichol. 

"Pepper,"  said  Henry.  "It's  as  good  as  gin- 
ger, any  day, — and  more  amusing.  Paish  has  an 
eye  for  it, — oh,  bother  Paish!" 

"Why?"  said  Nichol. 

"Because  I  want  him — well,  leave  it!  You  go 
back  to  the  telephone,  do  you  mind? — and  ask 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         181 

Miss — Mr.  Forrest  where  Miss  Faraday  is. 
Miss  Mona  Faraday.  Never  mind  if  she — he 
can't  tell  you, — it  won't  matter  the  least." 

"Mona — er — Faraday?"  said  Nichol,  evi- 
dently pleased  with  the  name,  but  perfectly  busi- 
ness-like. "Am  I  to  enquire  from  you?" 

"Not  from  me, — just  enquire  generally:  for 

yourself,  if  you  like Apologise,"  called 

Henry  after  him,  "to  Forrest  for  using  his  'phone 
for  such  rotten — "  Nichol,  grunting  merely,  was 
gone  long  before  he  had  finished :  he  was  an  ad- 
mirable agent. 

After  merely  ten  minutes  he  came  back  again. 
He  seemed  now  to  be  really  interested  in  Mott's 
case,  not  pretending  it,  for  the  sake  of  Henry: 
withal,  he  ceased  pitying  Henry  on  the  sofa, 
simultaneously,  which  was  all  to  the  good. 

"Miss — er — Faraday  is  also  at  Epsom,"  said 
Nichol.  "What's-his-name  has  found  her  a  cot- 
tage there, — curse  him!" 

"Nichol!"  cried  Henry,  amazed  and  ap- 
palled   Then  he  saw  what  it  was.  Mott 

and  his  Mona  had  been  "hunting"  too,  just  like 
Nichol  and  Erith;  but  Mott,  possessing  pepper, 
had  "found," — poor  Nichol! 

Henry  did  not  even  srnile  at  him:   it  was  too 


182  MADAM 

serious.  "Better  not  hunt  houses  at  Epsom,  for 

Erith,"  he  observed.  "It's  a  naughty  place 

Was  there  any  more,  about  this  Miss  Faraday?" 

Nichol,  sweeping  his  hands  over  his  face,  to 
aid  accuracy,  recited  how  Miss  Faraday,  the 
other  girl  wished  Henry  to  know,  had  been 
obliged  to  change  quarters  lately,  owing  to  pub- 
lic opinion. 

"Public  opinion?"  said  Henry,  interested. 
"Really?  How?" 

Well,  she  had  been  banned  there,  wherever  it 
was,  Nichol  explained  quite  clearly.  She  had 
been  boycotted,  as  attached  to  a  probable  crimi- 
nal, of  the  worst  sort. 

"Of  the  worst  sort?"  said  Henry.  "Meaning 
the  lad's  opinions?  Well,  I  never!  How  aw- 
fully interesting  that  is, — isn't  it?" 

Well,  how  could  Nichol  know  how  interesting 
it  was,  without  knowing  Miss  Faraday?  How- 
ever, he  was  kindly  to  Henry.  "He  does  seem  to 
be  a  bit  of  a  what-do-you-call-it,  Red,"  he  said. 
Nichol,  be  it  mentioned,  had  not  been  in  court. 
Henry,  considering  Erith,  had  sedulously  kept 
him  out  of  it:  it  was  really  not  a  pretty  show. 

"Do  you  gather,"  asked  Henry,  "that  Miss — 
er — Forrest  thinks  so?" 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         183 

"Thinks  he's  a  Red?"  said  Nichol.  "Oh,  I 
don't  know.  Forrest's  girl  only  gave  me  facts. 
And,  by  the  way,  Wicken,  she  said  she  feared  she 
must  finish,  if  we  don't  mind.  Of  course  one 
ought  not  to  fag  her  at  her  employer's  telephone 
over  one's  private  affairs.  I  mean,  girl  would 
have  scruples,  and  so  on." 

Nichol,  Henry  thought,  was  a  marvellous 
judge  of  character:  he  had  made  out  all  this, 
doubtless,  by  the  tone  of  Miss  Astley's  voice. 
Her  telephone-voice,  which  was  more! — a  mira- 
cle. 

"It  is  cool  of  us,"  he  assented  dreamily.  "Cool 
indeed.  I  wonder  what  she — my  word,  what  a 
girl!  What  a  girl,  Nichol!" 

"Which  of  them?"  said  Nichol.  Henry  was 
ashamed  of  him! 

"You  go  to  Erith,"  he  said,  very  severely,  "or 
I'll  never  tell  you  a  scrap  more  of  my  private 
affairs,  and  Miss  Faraday.  I'm  working  up 
Miss  Faraday,  and  I  shall  tell  her  one  day,  bet- 
ter than  Titus,  and  bring  the  house  down.  Un- 
less Mott  will " 

Still  Nicholas  eyes  lingered, — old  thief! — but 
he  went.  Henry,  recollecting,  called  his  thanks 
very  nicely  after  him.  His  aunt  appeared  with 


1 84  MADAM 

a  teacup,  and  he  gave  her,  in  exchange  the  tele- 
phone-book. Miss  Wicken  kissed  him 

It  had  been,  after  all,  thanks  to  her  and  Miss 
Astley  (sweet  women  both)  a  capital  morning's 
work. 


XIV 

LANCASTER  was  ensnared,  on  a  Sunday,  of  course, 
and  drank  tea  with  the  Wicken  family.  He 
called  on  them,  as  on  Miss  Fleming;  possibly 
his  attitude  to  his  present  hostess  was  not  quite 
the  same. 

"This  is  the  man  who  took  Titus,"  said  Henry, 
presenting  him  to  Nichol,  from  the  background ; 
for  the  fool  who  was  not  Dr.  Ashwin  was  ob- 
durate on  the  sofa-subject,  still. 

It  was  confusing  for  Nichol,  who  liked  things 
to  wear  their  accustomed  aspects,  in  life:  not  to 
go  rocking  sideways,  or  to  turn  themselves  up- 
side-down. For  a  minute  he  did  not  even  know 
if  he  were  expected  to  shake  hands  with  the 
"sweep" ;  however,  with  the  experience  of  an  of- 
ficer of  the  New  Army  behind  him,  he  just  man- 
aged the  contingency:  so  did  Mott. 

Titus,  though  confusing  to  Nichol,  was  not  the 
least  confusing  to  Mott.  Taking  things  as  they 
came,  that  habit  of  his  that  Miss  Astley  deplored, 
had  included  the  taking  of  Titus.  Just  now,  to- 
day, he  would  not  have  taken  Titus,  being  too 

185 


1 86  MADAM 

slack  even  to  ride;  but  to-morrow  he  might 
again,  easily.  "Demain,  c'est  I'eclair  dans  le 

voile" the  lightning,  even  in  Mott's  eyes, 

was  veiled  at  present.  But  dear  only  knew 
(thought  Henry)  when  it  might  not  flash  forth 
again. 

"You  had  something  for  him,  I  think,"  said 
Henry  to  Nichol.  (Erith  was  not  there.) 

"I?"  said  Nichol.  "What?— oh,  ahem!— 
well—" 

"He'd  better  go  home  and  get  it  from  his 
mother,"  said  Henry,  mainly  to  stir  Mott.  Use- 
less: he  could  not  find  a  spark  in  him. 

"I  hope — er — your  mother  is  well?"  said 
Nichol:  really  put  to  it  to  make  conversation 
with  this  mute  young  man. 

Mott  said  she  was  pretty  well.  Henry  got 
tired  of  it. 

"Auntie  will  tell  her  about  this.  It's  right  she 
should  know  of  it, — isn't  it,  Auntie?" 

"I  am  not  sure  it  is  not,  Mott,"  said  Miss 
Wicken :  always  led  by  Henry,  as  it  were  by  her 
delicate  pale  nose. 

Mott  drooped  expressively:  Miss  Wicken 
would  do  as  she  liked,  about  all  things.  He 
looked  at  his  teacup,  and  wanted  more  sugar; 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         187 

but  (that  being  all  he  could  do  for  her)  did  not 
ask. 

"It  might  help  things,  at  home,  for  Mott,"  said 
Henry,  "if  you  told  Mrs.  Lane  we  were  taking 
him  on  in  our  stable,  for  Titus." 

Hullo !    The  lightning.    He  had  it  now. 

"What's  up?"  said  Nichol,  mildly. 

Mott  put  his  teacup  down,  because  he  intended 
to  hurt  no  one's  fine  china;  then  he  rose.  He 
was  a  lovely  figure  of  a  youth,  so  like  the  lost 
Chris  in  outline,  that  Henry  longed  for  him  in 
the  stable,  frantically;  he  did  not  see  how  he 
could  do  without  him,  in  Titus's  education;  he 
wished  to  heaven  his  uncle  had  been  there  to 
drive  the  matter  home.  As  it  was,  Henry  had 
carte  blanche,  and  he  had  hoped  he  had  hit  on 
exactly  the  fashion,  in  public,  of  breaking  it  to 
Mott  how  he  was  required, — claimed — 

"No,  thanks,"  he  said  simply,  having  risen. 
Then  he  dusted  his  mouth  with  a  handkerchief, 
like  a  nicely  brought-up  boy,  in  a  well-behaved 
village:  and  tucked  it  away  in  his  sleeve.  Miss 
Wicken  remembered  him  in  Church,  so  well ;  it 
really  made  her  melancholy  to  think  of  him,  and 
Chris,  and  all  those  young  faces,  looking  so 
saintly,  while  in  their  hearts  they  thought  upon 


i88  MADAM 

ferrets  in  the  afternoon.  Where  were  they  gone? 
wondered  Miss  Wicken:  whose  thoughts  were 
always  mild  and  beautiful:  something  like  Mrs. 
Astley's,  but  better,  delicate  and  old-worldly, 
dusted  with  faded  rose-leaves,  like  her  room. 
Aloud  she  said  kindly — 

"You'll  come  to  us,  Mott." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Mott.  "The  fact  is,  I 
couldn't.  Lost  the  trick  of  it."  He  stopped. 

"Oh,  no,  you  haven't,  sir,"  said  Nichol,  loud. 

Everybody  turned  and  gazed  at  Nichol.  He 
was  heated,  having  taken  a  great  deal  of  tea. 
"You  may  think  you  have,  but  you're  as  good  as 
ever  you  were, — ever,  I  mean,  could  have 
been—" 

Mott's  mouth  had  opened  slightly:  then  he 
closed  it.  "Seat,  you're  alluding  to?  Thanks, — 
I  didn't  mean  that."  He  glanced  protest  at 
Henry,  who  was  shrieking  with  laughter  on  the 
sofa,  openly,  overcome  by  the  testimony  from  St. 
Nicholas  in  his  golden  bath.  Mott,  of  course, 
had  not  seen  Nichol  in  the  mud,  in  detail;  he 
had  been  too  remote  in  the  Spring  vistas  of  the 
park.  Perhaps  he  had  no  imagination, — any- 
how, he  either  could  not,  or  would  not,  picture  it. 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         189 

He  advanced  to  Miss  Wicken,  and  looked  down 
at  her. 

"There  are  things  you  can't  do,"  he  said,  "and 
that's  one.  I've  been  on  my  own  quite  a  time, 
now, —  and  there  are  others  depending — " 

"Are  you  married,  dear?"    She  spoke  quietly. 

"I  might  be, — I  don't  know." 

"Oh,  do  be,"  said  Miss  Wicken.  "For  your 
mother's  sake."  Henry  had  begun  to  listen 
closely,  interested.  His  aunt  knew  quite  a  lot  of 
facts.  Miss  Wicken  did  not  "paw"  him,  or  any- 
thing; she  was  not  a  very  "kind  lady";  but  of 
course  she  had  to  be  a  little,  having  seen  him  so 
often  in  Church. 

"I'd  not  marry  that  one,  she's  my  brother's. 
There's  another  I  think  of — "  But  how  bewil- 
deringly  clear!  Miss  Wicken,  hands  clasped  in 
her  lap,  looked  at  him  silently.  "Only  I  don't 
want  my  mother  to  meet  her,"  said  Mott. 

"Which?" 

"Neither.  Tell  Mother  anything  else,  horse 
and  so  on — "  At  this  point  Mott  suddenly  re- 
membered that  his  mother  had  told  him,  once, 
always  to  call,  and  think  of,  Miss  Wicken  as 
"Miss."  She  had  told  him  with  great  emphasis, 


MADAM 

too,  because  he  had  neglected  it,  in  her  hear- 
ing   He  decided  to  confess  a  little. 

"I  meant  to  take  the  horse,  might  ha'  kept  him ; 
I'd  easily  have  got  to  thinking  he  was  mine. 
That's  the  devil  in  me, — Mother'd  say, — no  fault 
of  hers."  He  waited. 

"Why  were  you  called  Dermot,  Mott?"  said 
Henry  dreamily. 

"I  never  heard."  He  put  a  hand  to  his  head. 
"I  guess  I  could  have  cut  the  police  as  well, — 
they're  not  very — able.  If  ever  I  get  into  trou- 
ble, bad  trouble,  it'll  be  over  horses,  that's  sure. 
Mother  prayed  solidly,  always,  to  keep  both  of 
us  from  the  races, — she  was  right.  But  my  job 
is  other — "  He  lifted  his  eyes,  slightly  bloodshot 
with  the  dust  of  the  roads,  above  her. 

"Motors?"    He  shook  his  head. 

"Aeroplanes,"  said  Nichol,  positive.  Every- 
body did  aeroplanes.  Mott  disappointed  him. 

"No."  He  glanced  at  Nichol.  "Nothing 
you'd  care  to  hear.  I'll  do,  with  the  girls  to 

help And  there's  the  infant,"  said  Mott 

gravely.  "He'll  help  in  time." 

"A  Baby!"  cried  Miss  Wicken,  electrified. 
"Henry!  What  next?" 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        191 

"Chris's  baby,  aunt."  Henry  in  the  back- 
ground was  helpful.  "He's  talking  politics." 

"But  what  on  earth,"  said  Miss  Wicken,  pite- 
ously  roseleaf,  looking  at  both  of  them,  "has  a 
Baby  to  do  with  politics?" 

"It's  everything  to  do  with  it — " 

Mott  broke  off.  Had  he  been  preaching  to 
her?  Horror!  Her  whom,  emphatically,  he 
was  always  to  call,  and  think  of,  as  Miss? 

"He  thinks  we're  a  gone  generation,"  cried 
Henry.  "Don't  you,  Mott?  Say  it!" 

"You  may  be.  I'm  not."  He  swerved  and 
stood  stoutly,  under  their  teasing;  for  of  course 
they  teased,  he  had  laid  himself  out  for  it.  They 
made  him  sit  down  again,  when  he  had  said  his 
say  (Oxford  sanctimony,  Henry  called  it)  and 
even  resume  his  fragile  teacup,  but  he  would  not 
stay  with  them, — not  he !  They  saw  the  back  of 
him  far  too  soon,  since  they  all,  disillusioned  and 
weary,  found  his  clever  innocence  most  desira- 
ble ;  and  ached,  whatever  treason  he  chose  to  lay 
tongue  to,  to  make  him  talk. 

"He  thinks  we're  a  prison,"  groaned  Henry, 
coming  back  from  the  door,  whither  he  had  gone, 
despite  doctor's  orders.  "Oh,  my  fellow-prison- 
ers, aren't  we?"  He  sat  down. 


192  MADAM 

"It's  he  should  be  shut  up,"  said  Nichol,  rest- 
lessly: suspicious  of  something,  somewhere,  that 
he  could  not  catch.  Dangerous !  Had  not  Erith 
said  it? 

"Oh,  no, — let  it  out,  let  it  out!"  Henry  was 
passionate.  "Mustn't  we,  Auntie?" 

"What  there  is  to  let." 

They  looked  round.  Miss  Wicken  rose  under 
their  gaze,  and  went  slowly  from  the  room, 
touching  one  of  her  little  spindly  tables  by  the 
door  to  help  herself.  The  tears  were  raining 
down 

Henry  said  it  was  that  Baby,  and  woman's  way, 
and  what  not ;  but  he  knew  it  was  nothing  of  the 
sort  Miss  Wicken  was  an  artist,  and  that  helps, 
in  the  little  matter  of  the  liberty  of  the  spirit,  a 
great  deal.  She,  who  had  known  Tennyson  in 
her  youth,  could  mark  through  the  clatter  of 
war's  tin  trumpets,  its  dying  clamour,  the 
modern  Galahad.  She  guessed,  though  things 
change  their  faces,  their  characters,  their  names, 
—their  names  above  all! — that  right  through  the 
generations,  the  rose  of  hope,  the  heart  of  the 
flower,  is  always  the  same. 

After  that,  they  were  caught,  one  and  all,  in 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         193 

the  whirlpool  of  the  wedding,  which  drew  them 
very  slowly,  twisting  and  turning, — enough  to 
make  Henry,  at  least,  very  giddy, — to  the  smash 
of  the  fatal  day. 

On  her  wedding-day,  Henry  gave  up  Erith, 
calmly.  It  is  simply  ridiculous  to  covet  your  best 
friend's  wife  for  a  lifetime:  only  Henry,  being 
ridiculous,  would  certainly  have  done  it,  but  for 
her  behaviour  over  the  earbobs;  and  but  (there 
is  no  doubt  of  it)  for  the  chance  of  his  having 
met  Miss  Astley,  "Forrest's  girl,"  and  talked  to 
her  at  an  Oxford  Street  luncheon-table.  He  still 
remembered  that  table:  every  dubiously  ex- 
punged stain  on  its  all-but-immaculate  marble. 
He  remembered  Miss  Astley's  face  as  well,  white 
and  almost  fainting,  while  she  answered  his  ques- 
tions feebly,  and  fixed  him  with  Erith's  grey  eyes. 

He  looked  at  Erith,  now, — immaculate 
enough,  with  the  sunlight  bathing  her,  in  the 
smart  western  church's  broad  aisle.  And  he 
looked  at  Nichol  beside  her:  and  still,  sitting  by 
his  aunt,  while  others  stood, — his  hand  in  hers 
secretly,  since  Miss  Wicken  insisted, — he  won- 
dered, wondered.  Henry  wondered,  obstinately, 
as  none  should  do  at  a  smart  wedding,  with 


194  MADAM 

goodly  music,  where  kind  congregations  of  the 
right  class  go  to  weep. 

Sweet  the  music  was,  luscious  the  lily-scent, 
most  appropriate  the  sunshine,  great  the  vision 
of  the  .noble  pair;  for  Nichol,  despite  their 
laughing,  in  his  war-trappings  and  love-trans- 
figuration looked  fine  enough.  Exquisite  above 
all  was  Erith,  translucent,  as  it  were,  with  her 
shimmer  falling  round  her;  only  deep  in  her 
former  lover's  heart  the  shimmer  of  Fleming  su- 
perfinery  had  really  been  eclipsed. 

The  eclipse  had  begun,  certainly,  with  her 
savagery  in  a  police-court;  but  it  finished  itself, 
retrospectively,  at  a  marble-topped  restaurant- 
table  :  penny-plain,  "common"  marble,  with  but 
dubiously-effaced  food-stains. 


XV 

IT  was  a  great  affliction,  or  Cross,  to  Mott,  that, 
down  at  Epsom  (though  the  place  was  pretty 
good)  he  had  no  car  on  Sundays.  So  sure  as 
Sunday  came  round,  he  wanted  one,  for  his  pri- 
vate purposes.  For  he  liked  society:  and  the 
society  he  most  cared  for  was  in  town. 

There  was  the  railway,  of  course, — he  had 
been  driven  to  that,  to  call  on  Henry;  or  taking 
a  horse, — which  was  hard  at  Epsom,  where  they 
take  care  of  their  horses;  but  beyond  these,  his 
best  chance  for  social  intercourse  was  to  sit  tight 
with  Chris's  family,  and  have  folks  come  and  see 
him :  which  limited  Mott,  of  course,  to  men. 

Not  but  what  there  were  plenty  of  men  in  the 
world,  all  very  ready  to  see  him, — indeed  he 
could  hardly  keep  Eric  away.  Eric  had  cars  and 
cars,  at  his  country-place,  as  Henry  had  guessed 
of  him;  but  on  the  further  side  of  London.  It 
might  be  the  thing  to  get  Eric  to  bring  one  of 
them  to  Epsom,  fetch  Mott  for  a  Sunday  out,  and 
include  in  the  programme  the  paying  of  a  duty- 
call. 

195 


196  MADAM 

For  he  owed  her  one,  naturally. 

Mott  Lane's  formalities,  in  life,  were  all  very 
neat;  perhaps  he  had  learnt  it,  like  some  of  his 
language,  with  the  Transatlantics  at  Paish's. 
But  quite  apart  from  American  manners,  the  na- 
tive trimness  of  the  Lane  lads,  had  often  been 
remarked  upon  by  Colonel  Wicken  in  the  old 
days :  he  said  it  was  brains.  He  had  put  off  dis- 
missing Chris,  for  long,  because  of  it;  even  after 
his  worst  carouses,  Chris,  bringing  out  the  horses 
(if  not  titivated)  was  always  perfectly  dressed. 
Mott  was  not,  like  his  brother,  a  professional  and 
provincial  gallivant;  he  never  wore  primroses, 
either  in  his  teeth  or  his  buttonhole,  as  Chris,  in 
the  merry  Spring-time,  was  wont  to  do;  he 
merely  trimmed  his  performances,  criminal  or 
otherwise,  aux  quatre  eplngles.  Mr.  Paish,  who 
knew  everything,  microscopically,  about  every 
man  and  boy  on  his  London  premises,  would 
have  put  this  into  Mott's  character,  offered  to 
Henry,  could  his  trap-like  jaw  have  emitted  the 
French  words.  It  was  how  Mott  "made  good," 
with  Paish's,  even  after  a  course  of  police-cells 
and  road-hogging,  most  probably. 

Consequently,  a  slave  to  etiquette,  he  turned  the 
matter  over  a  great  deal,  by  day  and  night,  specu- 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         197 

lating  about  the  other  Astleys.  How,  exactly, 
would  they  regard  a  Sunday  visit  from  him  and 
Eric?  One  of  them  he  was  sure  of,  fairly, — 
what  would  the  others  say?  Might  there  not  be 
an  irate  Lu's  father,  with  a  horsewhip,  on  the 
threshold:  considering  how  uncommonly  fine 
Mott  had  run  it,  in  the  matter  of  Lu? 

Mott  had  dwelt  upon  Curly,  as  he  called  her, 
a  good  deal  in  these  latter  days;  because,  if  any- 
thing really  had  happened  to  Curly,  in  his 
charge,  it  would  have  smashed  him,  probably, 
once  for  all;  all  round,  even  with  Curly's  sister. 
Thus  Mott  whistled  the  "Red  Flag"  rather  anx- 
iously, during  the  week-time,  while  he  played 
with  other  people's  cars. 

Then  he  cast,  as  it  were,  at  large:  and  sum- 
moned Freddy  Foote  to  him;  of  course  a  dead 
waste  of  a  Sunday, — Mott  did  not  really  think 
much  of  Freddy  Foote.  Eric's  aberration  in 

calling  him  friend  was  astonishing Still, 

he  supposed  it  was  the  next  thing,  and  he  always 
did  that,  with  determination.  There  was  a  meet- 
ing that  he  yearned  for,  of  his  favourite  kind,  in 
London,  the  same  evening;  but  since  Foote  must 
be  treated  civilly,  that  would  have  to  be  sacri- 
ficed, at  need. 


198  MADAM 

In  order  to  be  alone  with  Foote,  and  to  spare 
Foote's  purse,  and  leg,  he  proposed  bicycles  to 
him.  They  should,  on  the  Sunday  in  question, 
start  at  the  same  hour,  and  ride  opposite  ways. 
About  half  way  between  Epsom  and  Charing 
Cross,  it  was  probable,  in  the  nature  of  roads  or 
the  billiard-table,  that  they  would  "click." 
There  they  would  alight,  and  eat,  and  talk;  and 
according  to  Freddy's  account  of  things,  Mott 
would  return  to  Epsom,  or  go  forward, — he 
hoped  for  that.  He  had  a  strong  idea  (perhaps 
a  mouse-like  instinct)  that  a  late  hour  might  be 
good  for  paying  his  call ;  anyhow,  he  hated  the 
look  of  a  London  Sunday  in  daylight,  without 
knowing  that  he  hated  it,  like  many  of  his  kind. 
At  Wicken,  at  least,  there  had  been  fields — and 
ferrets — 

As  Mott  proposed,  things  arranged  them- 
selves :  it  was  really  a  very  smart  plan.  Foote, 
perfectly  faithful,  despite  his  Lu,  came  down  to 
meet  him.  They  "clicked"  far  nearer  to  Charing 
Cross  than  to  Epsom,  which  was  interesting;  but 
there  was  still  something  resembling  grass  to  lie 
on,  by  the  high  road.  Mott  and  Freddy  sat 
down,  and  shared  their  rations, — of  the  rations, 
Freddy's  were  by  far  the  best. 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         199 

"How  are  you?"  said  Footc. 

"Fine,"  said  Mott,  and  looked  it:  he  was 
freckled  with  the  country  air. 

Then,  lending  an  ear  while  he  fed,  he  heard 
the  tale  of  Lucy  out;  all  told,  it  relieved  him; 
luck  was  somewhere  about  the  world,  since  Lu 
had  got  off  scot-free.  "Someone"  had  visited  her 
hospital,  among  other  hospitals :  but  the  matron, 
hitherto  her  worst  enemy,  had  held  the  someone 
at  bay.  The  matron  had  alarmed  the  someone 
thoroughly,  by  her  free-born  English  attitude. 
On  principle,  the  matron  said,  she  never  asked  to 
know  anything  about  the  girls  in  their  free  hours, 
— which  was  flat  mendacity.  Lu  had  been  hide- 
ously frightened,  that  was  all,  poor  little 
"Curly,"  when  the  matron  had  her  up  after- 
wards, and  told  her  about  the  case. 

It  "finished"  Lu,  who  tucked  some  of  her  hair 
into  durance  the  same  afternoon;  and  shortly 
afterwards,  became  affianced  to  Freddy;  but  it 
did  not,  naturally,  finish  her  indignation  with 
Lina  and  "that  awful  man." 

She  had  cried,  from  the  sheer  backwash  of  ter- 
ror, for  several  nights.  She  had  told  her  sister 
that  Mott  was  like  Satan,  and  she  could  not  think 


200  MADAM 

how  Lina  could  look  at  him, — but  this  Foote  did 
not  betray. 

"I  am  afraid  she  dislikes  you,"  said  Foote  to 
Satan,  sitting  beside  him  on  the  grass. 

Mott  did  not  enquire  which  disliked  him,  but 
he  hoped  it  was  Curly.  He  could  stand  Curly 

cutting  him  off Then  he  enquired  about 

the  elder  Astleys. 

All  right,  the  father:  that  was  something  to 
hear,  since,  in  the  long  run,  he  matters  most.  He 
lay  down  flat  on  the  grass,  hands  over  eyes,  while 
Foote  proceeded  to  unfold  Mrs.  Astley,  to  un- 
wrap her  coverings,  with  almost  religious  care. 
Deep  in  Mott's  soul  was  an  awe,  profound,  of 
mothers.  Mrs.  Lane  had  instigated  it,  in  child- 
hood :  with  six  sons,  most  of  them  handsome,  you 
simply  must. 

However,  it  began  well. 

Mrs.  Astley  was  "pretty"  and  "like  Lina." 
She  was  gentle  with  the  girls, — that  was  better 
still.  "They're  so  fond  of  her,"  said  Foote,  "lit- 
tle jokes,  and  that."  Yes,  barring  the  jokes,  that 
sounded  like  Maudie  Lane;  Maudie  was  de- 
voted, and  dying  of  it,  probably.  "Get  on,"  said 
Mott. 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         201 

Well,  she  was  a  good  mother,  "cared  for  noth- 
ing outside  her  family  but  for  Church  things." 
Mott's  eyes  roamed  the  heavens :  that  was  very 
like  Mrs.  Lane.  She  had  divided  her  afTections, 
and  powers,  up  into  eight  parts,  Lane  and  young 
Lanes:  till  Chris  disappointed  her.  Nothing 
but  the  Church  for  her,  certainly,  stood  outside. 
Even  while  she  beat  them,  she  clung  to  her  Bible 
with  the  other  hand. 

"She  seems  to  play  at  everything,"  proceeded 
the  devout  Freddy,  sweating  slightly.  "Very 
gentle-like  and  faded:  not  of  a  nature  to  take 
things  hard." 

To  play  at  everything!  Mott  laughed,  in  the 
grass: — here  was  a  difference!  Mrs.  Lane  did 
not  play  at  education,  specially. 

"I  expect  she's  always  been  let  to,"  explained 
Freddy.  "Pretty  little  woman:  with  girls,  you 
can  always  shunt  the  worries  if  you  want.  Lina, 
now,  she's  nicely  worried.  Not  seen  her  face  to- 
day, below-stairs,  and  it's  Sunday.  I  see  to  Lu, 
of  course." 

Mott  said— "Quite  right,"  and  blinked  at  the 
heavens ;  but  he  did  not  laugh  again. 

"Wouldn't  it  do  her  good  to  worry  a  bit?"  he 
asked  presently. 


202  MADAM 

"The  mother?  We-ell— "  Foote  grew  a  little 
anxious,  looking  at  Mousie  in  the  grass :  he  still 
thought  of  him  as  Mousie.  He  had  not  seen,  or 
heard  of  him  in  the  part  of  late,  still, —  "Don't 
do  anything  hasty,  now;  I  daresay  I  oughtn't  to 

have  said  it Don't  expect  me  to  back 

you,  anyway,"  he  added  presently.  Mousie  was 
silent.  Hoping  that  he  had  calmed,  Foote  grew 
thoughtful.  "Odd,  you  should  want  that  one," 
he  reflected  aloud.  "On  my  word,  ask  me,  I'd 
have  given  you  Lu " 

"Right-o.  Every  little  helps,"  said  Mott. 
Suddenly  he  rose,  seized  his  bicycle,  and  cast  it 
in  the  grass  beside  him.  "Look  there,"  he  said  to 
Foote,  snicking  something.  "Old  iron, — lent 
me.  That'll  never  last  out." 

"What,"  said  the  amiable  Foote,  "are  you  in- 
tending to  do,  then?  You're  longer  from  home 
than  I  am, — and  the  rain  coming  on." 

So  it  was.  Mott,  a  country  boy,  threw  a  glance 
across  the  heavens.  "Got  the  time?"  he  asked 
Freddy.  "I've  smashed  my  watch." 

He  did  not  inform  Foote  how  he  had  smashed 
it.  He  might  have  broken  it  when  he  injured  the 
bicycle  so  fatally,  scorching;  and  be  suffering 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        203 

himself  from  giddiness,  or  concussion:  his  look 
was  decidedly  strange. 

"Summer-Time,"  said  Mott.  A  plop  of  rain, 
with  the  words,  fell  on  to  Foote's  nose.  He  swal- 
lowed it.  Something  was  coming,  coming 

"What's  that?  An  auto?  What's  the  number, 
can  you  see?" 

The  number,  glimpsed  as  the  vehicle  passed 
them,  was  no  way  striking:  that  of  a  local  car, 
making  for  London.  Incontinently,  Mott  sent  a 
whistle  in  its  wake.  He  had  not  the  least  idea 
himself  what  he  was  going  to  do, — not  the  slight- 
est. , 


XVI 

THE  car  contained  a  stout,  hoarse,  elderly  gentle- 
man: who  drew  himself  up  with  indignation, 
and  looked  round  upon  the  two. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  he  said,  irascible. 

"I  want  a  lift,  do  you  mind?"  said  Mott. 

"What  the  eternal — are  you  drunk?" 

"No  chance.  I  want  to  get  to  London,  safe,  by 
six.  You  look  as  if  you  could  do  it."  He  gazed, 
not  at  the  elderly  gentleman,  but  at  the  car.  The 
latter  looked  him  up  and  down. 

"Are  you  his  keeper?"  he  said  to  Fred.  "Take 
your  hand  off  the  car,  sir." 

Mott  did  so,  and  threw  the  hand  up. 

"I  have  a  Word  that  must  be  spoken  to-night," 
he  said.  "I  have  promised."  The  tone  was  not 
loud  at  all,  but  penetrating.  He  looked  full  at 
the  old  gentleman  with  his  singular  eyes. 

"Are  you  saved?"  he  enquired. 

"Oh!"  said  the  old  gentleman,  realising  it. 
England,  on  certain  days,  is  full  of  this  sort  of 
thing.  So,  of  course,  is  America.  "Er,  no, — and 

204 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         205 

I  don't  want  to  be.  To  be  sure, — yes, — this  is 
Sunday." 

"Ah.    Maybe  you'd  forgotten,"  said  Mott 

His  tone  was  milder.  It  struck  him,  the  raging 
religious  lion,  with  an  already  raging  old  gentle- 
man, might  be  a  mistake.  Why  not  try  Mrs. 
Astley,  or  something  quieter? 

"Anything  wrong  with  him?"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  Foote-ward.  Fred  had  an  inspira- 
tion. 

"He  lost  five  brothers  in  the  War,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  poor  lad !"  He  looked  round :  but  Mott, 
who  had  leapt  into  the  car,  was  stationary.  The 
veiled  lightning,  which  had  broken  forth  in  him, 
had  now  all  faded  out. 

"Don't  lie,  for  my  benefit,"  he  drawled.  "I'm 
done.  It  was  a  bet,  sir."  He  climbed  slowly  out 
of  the  car. 

"A  bet?"  swore  the  old  gentleman.  "It  was  a 
first-class  bit  of  acting.  Just  come  along  and  talk 
to  me,  you!  Are  you  a  Canadian?  Been  on  the 
boards?" 

"No,  sir.  It  was  rottin', — came  on  me."  He 
was  utterly  cast  down.  He  obeyed  the  stranger's 
peremptory  sign  so  far  as  to  mount  the  car  again : 


206  MADAM 

but  he  lay  there  slackly,  looking  aside:   "done," 
as  he  said. 

Foote  was  amazed  at  him,  quite  utterly 
amazed.  Many  of  Mousie's  "stunts"  had  he 
seen,  but  none  to  match  it.  For  here  was  the 
hoarse  old  stranger,  more  attracted  every  mo- 
ment, leaning  over  Mott. 

"I  had  such  a  lot  of  it  in  youth,"  said  Mott, 
with  shut  eyes.  "Too  much.  I  suppose  it  soaked 
into  me, — or  some  other  way.  I've  thought  at 
times  I  cud  preach." 

"D —  the  preachers,"  said  the  strange  old  gen- 
tleman- "Have  you  spoken  in  public?"  Shake 
of  head.  "Do  you  want  to?"  Silence  from 
Mott. 

"Come  in,  you,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  to 
Freddy.  "Lift  the  bikes  up,  we  can  take  them. 
Was  it  true  about  your  brothers,  my  boy?"  Si- 
lence from  Mott,  with  shut  eyes.  He  was  swear- 
ing, by  all  his  gods,  never  to  speak  to  Freddy 
Foote  again. 

"Can  you  drive  a  car?" 

"Fairly."    He  moved. 

"Then  you  can  relieve  me;  Sunday,  I'm  de- 
prived of  my  man.  Will  you  drive  the  car,  drop 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        207 

me  at  Hornside  Lodge,  beyond  Wimbledon,  and 
then  have  a  joy-ride,  for  your  pay?" 

"Yep,"  said  Mott,  casual.  Things  were  turn- 
ing up,  but  he  was  tired.  His  spirit  was  sick 
within  him,  temporarily.  He  dropped  himself 
into  the  driving-seat,  and  took  charge. 

"No  doubt  you  would  like,"  said  the  humor- 
ous old  gentleman,  hoarsely,  "to  go  to  evening 
service  in  it,  before  you  bring  it  back.  Because 
I  allow  you." 

"Right,"  said  Mott.    "I  let  myself  in  for  that." 

"Do  you  mean  you  will,  you  blackguard?" 

"If  I  can  choose  the  Church.  There's  a  meet- 
ing I'd  like—" 

"Quaker  Meeting?"  The  old  lad  was  amused, 
chiefly  by  himself.  "All  right,  go  to  your  meet- 
ing." 

"Can  I  take  a  friend?"  said  Mott.  His  eyes 
were  on  his  machinery,  attentive:  but  his  jaw 
was  fixed.  It  was  a  mighty  fine  car. 

"Which  sex  friend?"  said  the  unspeakable  old 
gentleman.  "Oh,  Lord,  look  out!" 

He  said  this  at  intervals,  as  they  approached 
the  metropolis,  until  he  realised  the  sort  of  thing 
that  was  driving  him.  Then  his  look  suggested 


2o8  MADAM 

"Professional?"  to  Freddy:  and  Freddy  nodded 
—"Sure." 

When  they  got  to  Hornside  Lodge,  he  had 
changed  his  tactics.  "You  can  have  the  car, 
boys,"  he  said,  in  the  genial  war-manner,  "for 
whatever  you  like,  till  ten:  and  then  bring  it 
back  for  me.  I  am  going  to  trust  you.  Don't  get 
tipsy,  will  you?  Where  do  you  live,  you? 
Epsom?  That's  near  enough.  Great  Gad  alive, 
you  shall  drive  me  home." 

"Well,  of  all  luck!"  said  truthful  Freddy, 
rolling  in  luxury.  He  really  thought  it  was  luck 
that  had  done  this  thing. 

"Get  out,"  said  Mott. 

"What?" 

"Get  out!'  The  car  drew  up.  "I'm  done 
with  you.  That's  the  railway.  Marry  Curly  or 
anyone  silly.  I'm — fair — sick  of  the  sight  o' 
your  face." 


XVII 

"I'VE  till  ten,"  said  Mott,  in  somebody  else's 
lordly  car,  looking  before  him. 

"I  can't, — I  can't  really,"  said  Miss  Astley, 
just  as  before. 

London  was  turning  somersaults,  for  her,  with 
a  vengeance.  Such  a  rainy  spring  evening,  so 
grey,  so  hopeless:  her  only  day  of  rest,  which 
had  been  a  day  of  anything  else,  was  drawing  to 
a  close.  Her  Sunday  headache, — that  horror 
known  to  working-girls,  created  from  fear  of  it- 
self,— was  racking  her.  She  was  still,  of  course, 
very  anxious  about  her  mother, — not  about  Lu. 
Lu  was  all  right, — she  had  meant  to  reassure 
him,  and  would  have  written.  She  had  just 
slipped  out,  to  evening  Church,  needing  to  bathe 
her  spirit,  howsoever  weary:  Mott  had  known 
she  would. 

He  found  the  Church  easily,  rendezvous,  since 
its  voice  was  raised.  He  waited  for  her,  patient: 
one  car  among  many  cars:  but  he  thought  he 
would  not  be  missed.  Such  a  very  observant, 

209 


210  MADAM 

well-trained  little  surgeon's  typist  was  Miss 
Astley. 

"I  can't,  dear,"  she  said,  at  his  eyes.  "Oh,  can't 
you  see?" 

"Come  along  up,"  said  Mott.  Had  he  come 
thus  far,  and  played  the  ass  on  the  Epsom  Road, 
and  kicked  away  Fred  Foote  the  harlequin, 
merely  for  this? 

The  churchgoers,  nice  people,  were  looking  at 
them:  peering  through  the  rain,  at  the  man  and 
girl,  not  unkindly.  All  about  London,  penny- 
plain  men  and  girls  were  meeting,  sweetly:  it  is 
their  only  day.  Even  supposing  they  should,  just 
for  once,  ignore  the  church-bells Evi- 
dently he  was  tempting  her,  for  she  had  her  little 
black  case  in  her  hand,  with  C.  E.  A.  A  sweet 
girl,  modestly  dressed,  with  pretty  eyes  rather 
harassed,  raised. 

Men  looked  at  the  car,  also,  sharply :  and  Mott 
saw  them  looking.  Did  they  take  him  for  a 
thief? 

"Oh,  what  a  lovely  car,"  said  Lina,  mechan- 
ically. "Not  very  far,  dear.  Please,  you  mustn't. 
Mother,  after  Church,  will  be  wanting  me  back." 

"I  want  to  take  you  to  mine,"  he  said  huskily. 
"We've  time  enough  for  the  opening, — hymns, 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        211 

that  is.  Guess  we  can  do  a  bit  of  it."  He  looked 
at  her  watch,  his  being  broken :  his  arm  about 
her,  his  hand  on  her  little  wrist  as  she  leant  on 
him. 

"Will  you?"  said  Mott,  grasping  her  wrist 
with  gentle  fingers.  "I  won't  let  you  in.  It's  just 
a  way  of  looking— 

"I'll  come  anywhere.  I  can't  bear  it."  Oh, 
Mrs.  Astley! 

A  wind  arose,  tossing  them,  out  of  the  tender- 
smelling  night  beyond.  Night  and  summer,  not 
yet,  but  striding  softly  upon  them 

"Can't  bear  what?  I  always  wanted  you, — 
thought  of  you.  Didn't  you  know  it?" 

"I  think  I  did —last  time.    I  think  I  did." 

"Do  you  know  what  my  name  is?"  He  said  it, 
and  she  repeated.  "Dermot  Lane.  They  call  me 
Mott,  at  home, — Maudie  does.  And  what's 
yours?"  She  shook  her  head,  as  he  looked  in  her 
eyes;  hopeless  of  speaking,  but  her  lips  moved. 
"Madam,"  said  Mott  gravely.  "That's  right. 
Now  we're  onto  one  another,  sure.  Give  us  a 
kiss."  She  did  so.  "Darling.  He's  quite  all 
right  about  that  girl,  you  know, — his  girl.  Will 
you  come  to  Church  with  me?" 


212  MADAM 

Lina  was  terribly  late. 

Not  really  late,  of  course,  because  he  had  to 
reach  the  hoarse  gentleman  by  ten,  and  by  no 
earthly  nor  heavenly  means  could  he  miss  the  ap- 
pointment; but  terribly  late  for  Mrs.  Astley, 
who  had  been  yearning:  trusting  that  Lina  had 
not  been  walking  with  somebody,  after  Church. 

Of  course,  if  it  were  a  really  nice  man,  tall, 
not  titled,  but  gentlemanly,  who  had  come  as  a 
patient  to  Mr.  Forrest's,  with  a  war-injury  that 
was  interesting,  but  easily  cured,  that  would  be 
beautiful.  Dear  Lina!  she  deserved  it:  and 
Mrs.  Astley  tried  hard,  during  the  waiting-time, 
to  picture  that  it  was  the  case. 

But  she  did  not  believe  it,  really:  any  more 
than  she  really  believed  Lina  would  ever  desert 
her.  And  in  any  event,  and  with  whoever  it  was, 
she  need  not  have  lingered  so  terribly  late. 

When  she  came  in,  she  was  as  wet  as  possible : 
but  that,  fortunately,  was  kept  from  Mrs.  Ast- 
ley's  view. 

Lucy  was  cross  about  Fred.  Fred  had  turned 
up  to  supper,  after  they  had  all  finished  (except 
Lina,  still  at  Church),  and  thoroughly  tired. 
What  had  his  stupid  business  in  the  country 
been?  Why  had  he  ever  tried  to  bicycle, — he 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         213 

was  not  fit  to  ride.  No  blessed  man  in  this 
blessed  country  was  fit  for  anything,  in  hospi- 
tal-Lu's  estimation,  without  looking  like  an  elon- 
gated turnip  afterwards, — rather  a  clammy  tur- 
nip :  it  was  raining  outside. 

Lina's  hat,  a  nice  one,  was  half-ruined.  What 
had  she  been  doing  with  herself?  Had  she,  Lu 
wondered  artlessly,  been  to  Church  at  all? 

"Yes,"  said  Lina,  looking — well! 

Well,  as  even  Lucy  admitted,  that  settled  it 
But  it  was  more  than  evident,  even  to  a  quite  in- 
curious sister,  that  she  had  been  doing  other 
things.  She  came  from  the  "Tube,"  for  instance. 
And  was  she  possibly  aware  that,  going  or  com- 
ing, her  umbrella  had  never  been  opened  at  all? 
It  was  still  rolled  up  neatly,  her  hat  a  sight,  her 
hair  rather  loosened  and  frisky  also.  And  she 
who  was  everlastingly  complaining  of  Lucy's 
hair. 

"I  never  did,  dear,"  said  Lina,  settling  hers. 
Her  fingers  were  still  trembling,  everything 
rocking  under  her  with  rapture :  yet  she  had  to 
get  through. 

"Well,  it  was  somebody  else,  then,"  said  Lucy. 
She  noted,  in  a  flash  of  the  eyelashes,  that  her  sis- 
ter's cheeks  were  pink.  Lina!  She  made  poor 


214  MADAM 

Fred  hurry  inordinately  over  his  supper,  and 
he  needed  it,  having  had  nothing  but  sandwiches 
for  dinner,  owing  to  Mott.  Lu's  object,  of 
course,  was  to  get  him  away,  into  the  kitchen,  and 
talk  to  him  well.  Lina  would  be  with  her 
mother  upstairs,  helping  her :  Father  in  the  front 
room,  smoking,  in  slippers.  The  servant  was 
out. 

Fred  came  into  the  kitchen  and  helped  with 
the  supper-dishes.  Lu  was  quite  competent,  at 
such  things :  and  he  having  done  it  in  the  Army, 
was  apt  to  be  an  able  help.  To-night  his  ringers 
were  all  thumbs,  and  Lu  was  impatient  with  him. 

"Oh,  give  them  to  me  and  sit  down,  if  smoke 
you  must.  Now,  what  has  happened  to  Lina,  I 
will  know!" 

"Well,  can't  you  guess?"  said  Freddy.  Be- 
tween sympathy  for  Lina,  and  misery  at  his  own 
mismanagement  with  Mousie,  he  was  all  but  in 
tears.  Why  could  he  do  nothing  but  tell  truth, 
in  life,  where  it  was  not  wanted? 

He  whispered  the  history,  in  the  kitchen  si- 
lences. Then  there  was  a  pause.  During  the 
pause,  the  clock  went  tack,  tack,  tack,  on  the  wall 
above  them.  A  kitchen  clock,  just  wound  for 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF         215 

the  week,  is  so  virtuous:  regular  and  sad,  like 
Freddy. 

Curly  had  left  her  washing.  She  laid  a  round 
plate,  half  dried,  upon  the  table.  She  thrust  at 
her  hair,  absent,  with  a  damp  left  hand,  and  it 
dropped  upon  her  right  eye.  Her  pretty  mouth 
opened,  her  eyes  (one  but  just  visible)  looked 
out  a  thought  haggardly  upon  Freddy. 

"He  didn't!    Boarded  it?    And  made  good?" 

"He  always  makes  good,"  moaned  Freddy. 
"But  /  put  my  foot  in  it,  bless  you !" 

"You  always  do,"  said  faithless  Curly.  "You 
were  born  for  that." 

"Oh,  look  here,  now!  I  had  a  time  of  it.  He 
turned  me  out — " 

"Quite  right  too." 

"In  the  blinking  road.  I  walked  a  mile  to  a 
station.  Raining  it  was." 

"Serve  you  well  right,"  said  Curly.  "Why 
couldn't  you  help  him?  Fancy  Lina!  You 
know,  she  cares  for  him,  really." 

"You  told  me  so." 

"But  she  said  she  went  to  Church,"  said  Lu 
presently,  sitting  on  Fred's  knee, — the  china  be- 
ing still  unfinished.  She  whispered — "I  say,  is 
he  doing  it  already?" — with  awe. 


216  MADAM 

"That's  right,"  whispered  Foote.  "He's 
Satan,  you  know." 

"I  always — rather  liked  Satan.  Don't  tell 
Mother.  Fancy  Lina !  I  wish  he  wouldn't  make 
her  tell  stories,  though.  D'you  think  she  did?" 

The  virtuous  clock  went  tack,  tack,  tack,  in  the 
silence  above  them.  "There's  something  about 
love — "  began  melancholy  Fred. 

Tack,  tack,  tack,  it  went  on;  his  manly  breast 
heaved  under  Curly's  light  breathing.  There 
was  something  about  Love,  in  that  penny-plain 
house,  on  that  London-Sunday  evening: — so 
Foote's  sentence  hung  unfinished,  and  the  china 
remained  unwashed. 

That  is,  till  Miss  Astley  came  down,  well  after 
eleven,  and  washed  it.  Her  mother  had  but  just 
got  to  sleep,  she  trusted  permanently.  She  dried 
the  plates,  and  put  them  up  quickly  in  the  rack, 
with  pretty  movements;  thus  her  pulses  must 
have  been  steady  again,  for  plates  are  slippery 
things.  After  that  she  looked  up  at  the  clock  of 
virtue,  holding,  or  guarding,  something  between 
her  hands. 

She  had  to  be  at  Mr.  Forrest's,  Harley  Street, 

the  next  morning  at  nine-thirty;  and  Mott  must 

\ 


LONDON  RIGHTS  ITSELF        217 

be  on  view  even  earlier  at  Paish's  son-in-law's 
place,  and  had  broken  his  watch.  So  she  had 
strapped  her  own  little  watch  to  his  wrist,  just  at 
leaving :  for  it  kept,  she  assured  him,  perfectly 
correct  time.  Time,  in  this  world,  going  time,  is 
so  very  important:  and  that  excellent  clock,  in 
the  Astley  kitchen  was  hurrying  on.  That  was 
why  Lina  looked  up  at  it. 

His  watch  she  took,  in  order  to  get  it  mended, 
properly,  in  her  own  centre-of-London :  and  in 
order  to  keep  it  clutched  in  her  curved  hands, 
and  under  her  cheek, — like  Time  itself  at  a 
standstill, — all  night. 


PART  III 


PENNY  ROSES 


BUT  it  was  a  long  courtship,  or  probation :  most 
unlike  the  upper-cut  lovers'  rosy  time.  It  was  a 
lean,  hard  period,  this  in  which  the  Lancaster- 
epic  was  cast, — but  we  remember  it 

She  had  looped  him,  one  solitary  rider  in  the 
rout:  they  had  happened  on  one  another;  but  it 
swept  by  them  still,  rout  of  a  whole  world's  orgy, 
dogged  by  a  primitive  spectre  of  want, — jostling 
them  jealously;  and  they  were  not  out  of  it, 
never  for  more  than  a  moment:  he  could  not  be. 

Nothing,  not  even  love,  could  divert  him  long 
from  his  fellowship  with  the  dead,  his  secret 
service  to  the  future;  and  she  learnt  or  guessed 
him  rapidly,  as  she  had  in  the  rain  that  first  night, 
creeping  under  his  cloak.  Of  one  thing  there 
could  be  no  doubt, — they  were  made  for  part- 
ners. She  watched  and  followed,  very  quietly, 
her  eyes  suddenly  open  upon  a  realm,  a  religion 
she  had  never  dreamt  of.  Yet  she  would  not 
often  in  those  early  times  (for  all  his  urgency 

221 


222  MADAM 

after  the  "hymn"-singing)    tell  him  what  she 
thought. 

Once  she  volunteered  for  him  that  women 
were  persuaded  (she  thought)  by  big  feelings, 
but  by  one  person, — not  always  a  man,  she  added 
hastily.  He  laughed  and  let  it  be,  though  he 
"gave  her  better,"  privately.  She  amused  him, 
on  the  public  tack,  but  he  never  played  with  her : 
on  the  contrary,  he  carried  her  to  the  feet  of  his 
own  heroes,  one  by  one,  with  great  simplicity. 

His  own  scope  of  knowledge  and  reading 
amazed  her.  Lina  had  always  thought  she  and 
Lu  were  well-educated,  having  been  to  a  nice 
school.  He  was  chary  of  display,  and  before  her 
circles  especially;  even  alone  with  her,  he 
showed  most  unsure  of  himself ;  but  that  he  was 
constantly  testing  his  store  of  facts,  in  whatever 
society,  she  felt.  The  never-wasted  passion  for 
pure  truth  was  in  him:  it  was  right  at  the  root 
of  him,  lending  him  dignity;  whence,  no  doubt, 
Mott  numbered  among  his  mixed  acquaintance 
not  a  few  very  able  men. 

But  that  was  his  other  world  that  Mona  knew 
of;  and  Miss  Astley  could  not  often  enter  it,  for 
all  her  opening  curiosity.  It  had  to  wait,  like 
everything But  meanwhile,  she  felt  her 


PENNY   ROSES  .      223 

way  to  him  cautiously  in  the  world's  havoc: 
watched  for  him  in  the  Clapham  turret,  met  his 
sly  glance  in  company  or  in  the  crowd:  desper- 
ate, full-fed  of  maiden  glory,  utterly  patient, — 
such  is  the  penny  rose-time. 

And  very,  very  decorous,  by  upper-cut  stand- 
ards :  for,  since  it  is  long  and  frequently  endless, 
penny-plain  courtship  has  to  be. 

Lina's  family  was  the  easier,  superficially. 
Mr.  Astley  accepted  Mott  at  once,  and  liked 
him;  it  was  a  vast  relief,  after  Foote,  to  have 
someone  fit  to  talk  to, — that  was  largely  Mr.  Ast- 
ley's  feeling:  but  he  also  thought  his  "friend- 
ship" would  be  good  for  Lina,  and  wake  her  up : 
and  he  told  his  wife  so. 

Mrs.  Astley  did  not  know  where  to  begin,  in 
answering  him :  simply  did  not  know  where  to 
begin. 

Lina's  Mr.  Lane  was  certainly  tallish  and 
rather  fine-looking:  handsome  if  you  were  not 
particular,  as  of  course  Mrs.  Astley  was.  If  he 
did  not  "drive  his  own  carriage,"  he  drove  other 
people's,  in  dashing  style,  and  with  a  disregard 
for  details  of  the  law  that  would  have  befitted 
any  marquis ;  but  he  was  barely  a  gentleman,  and 


224  MADAM 

not  (alas!)  an  officer;  worst  of  all,  he  had  never 
been  to  France,  a  feat  that  could  be  credited  even 
to  Freddy  Foote.  Finally,  and  inferior  to  Foote 
again,  he  had  never  been  wounded ;  only  shelved 
for  a  somewhat  vague  indisposition,  which  Mrs. 
Astley  hoped  need  not  be  qualified  by  a  harsher 
name. 

True,  Mr.  Lane  was  young:  as  young  as  Lina. 
Still,  younger  than  he,  Mrs.  Astley  had  read  in 
veracious  newspapers,  had  got  themselves  by 
fair  or  foul  means  into  the  front  line,  and  had 
even  been  medalled,  mentioned,  and  knocked 
about.  Since  Mott  never  spoke  of  his  brothers, 
Mrs.  Astley  never  heard  about  them,  which  was 
a  pity;  but  it  is  doubtful  if  she  would  even  have 
accepted  Chris,  a  Captain  and  hero,  for  Lina: 
he  was  not  Christian  enough.  George  she  might 
have  accepted,  only  George  was  the  single  Lane, 
but  Mott,  who  had  never  soared  from  the  ranks, 
— and  Mott  would  have  remedied  the  oversight, 
given  another  half-year.  Consequently,  and  all 
told,  Lina  ought  never  have  looked  towards  such 
a  family,  visibly  and  vulgarly  constructing  its 
fortunes;  but  rather  have  chosen  the  entirely 
imaginary  smart  patient  of  Mr.  Forrest's,  of 
whom  Mrs.  Astley  dreamed. 


PENNY   ROSES  225 

However,  she  let  things  go,  prettily  in  her 
manner,  assuming  a  long  far-niente,  or  "nothing 
doing,"  as  the  age  said,  ere  Lina's  fate  was  sealed. 
Her  husband's  brow  was  bent  a  little,  when  he 
alluded  to  the  financial  page, — that  was  hopeful. 
There  were,  she  gathered,  encumbrances  on  the 
young  man's  side,  of  what  kind  she  carefully 
refused  to  know,  though  Lina  several  times  at- 
tempted to  tell  her.  If  there  were  such  en- 
cumbrances, Mr.  Lane  must  evidently  wait  till 
Nature,  or  God,  removed  them.  Mrs.  Astley 
did  not  mind  which,  so  long  as  he  did  not  crowd 
upon  her  the  grosser  details;  and  so  long  as  she 
had  her  own  darling's  devotion  and  services  in 
the  meantime.  While  Nature,  or  Providence 
were  thus  engaged  in  Mrs.  Astley's  interest,  Lina 
would  naturally  go  on  working  for  Mr.  Forrest, 
— and  the  tall,  smart  patient  might  quite  possibly 
turn  up. 

It  was  like  dealing  with  a  vast  fluffiness,  to 
Mott:  reminding  him  vividly  of  a  lady's  feather 
mantle,  or  scarf,  a  thing  heavy  with  lightness 
which  he  had  once  picked  up  in  a  theatre  cloak- 
room; and  which  his  soul  loathed  because  there 
was  nothing  in  it  anywhere  to  grasp.  Not,  of 
course,  that  his  soul  loathed  Mrs.  Astley:  she 


226  MADAM 

was  a  sweet  woman,  and  like  Lina :  Foote  was 
perfectly  right.  She  had  many  of  Lina's  little 
ways,  movements  and  intonations, — eminently 
upper-cut, — purer  style  possibly  than  her  daugh- 
ters :  only  Mott  liked  "Madam"  best. 

He  even  preferred  his  own  mother  to  deal 
with, — his  own  mother  bearing  not  the  faintest 
resemblance  to  a  feather  mantle,  or  anything 
feathery.  Far  from  that • 


II 

HENRY  "took  on"  Mrs.  Lane,  or  at  least  pre- 
pared himself  to  do  so,  with  the  Colonel's  assist- 
ance. It  happened  in  the  following  wise. 

When  Henry,  that  summer,  got  down  to 
Wicken,  whither  his  kind  relations  had  long  pre- 
ceded him,  and  returned  to  the  arms  of  Titus  and 
Chase,  he  found  Lancaster-facts  quite  thick  on 
the  ground.  His  own  solitary  fact,  concerning 
the  engagement, — which  he  had  perhaps  hastily 
regarded  as  signing  and  sealing  the  Lancaster- 
document, — was  stale  to  the  homeland:  even  to 
Chase,  and  certainly  to  Titus.  They  hardly  took 
it  to  be  conclusive,  or  climactical,  at  all, — aston- 
ishing! Of  course,  in  the  Wicken  and  Wandsley 
neighbourhood,  there  already  existed  an  epic  of 
sorts,  since  the  long  Lane  family  was  known 
there.  Henry  had  forgotten  that, — he  had  for- 
gotten everything However,  he  made  up 

by  strides,  sitting  at  the  feet  of  the  home-people, 
whom  he  loved,  and  standing  at  the  nose  of  Titus. 
It  was  simply  wonderful  (Erith  being  safely 

227 


228  MADAM 

married,  and  his  mind  relieved  of  her)  to  be  at 
home  again.  It  prompted  dreams. 

He  shut  his  eyes,  r.nd  let  them  talk  to  him.  He 

had  never  told  tales  himself  in  his  life 

His  uncle,  for  instance,  had  been  down  during 
Race  Week  to  Epsom,  and  interviewed  Mott: 
his  aunt  had  had  a  letter  from  Maudie. 

Why  had  it  never  struck  Henry  that  the  Col- 
onel (dear  Robert)  was  simply  bound  to  go  to 
Epsom,  this  year  that  England,  peaceful,  took  to 
her  more  serious  pursuits  again?  Or  that  Miss 
Wicken, — hanging  Henry's  silk-embroidered 
curtains,  in  the  country,  for  Henry's  good, — had 
every  excuse  for  hearing  about  Maudie,  since 
Maud  had  been  a  shining  light  of  her  extra- 
special  Kultur-classes,  of  old,  in  the  village 
school? 

He  knew  all  that,  and  yet  he  had  forgotten, 
strangely.  It  all  belonged  to  the  other  part,  the 
golden  time:  which  the  war  had  muddied  and 
smirched,  for  him,  but  which  was  now,  oh,  so 

gently! — cleansing  itself  and  coming  back 

He  listened. 

Colonel  Wicken  had  happened  upon  the  "boy 
Lane"  on  the  Epsom  downs,  sitting  as  usual  silent 


PENNY   ROSES  229 

upon  a  car,  with  a  newspaper  of  the  wrong  sort, 
only  he  was  not  reading  it.  His  eyes  looked  tired 
and  his  posture  languid, — that  is,  considering 
Lancaster's  reputation.  He  was  not  wrestling 
with  fate,  nor  risking  anything,  even  upon  the 
race-course.  He  had  to  wait  for  Pinker,  by 
Tinker's  orders, — and  he  was  too  far  off  to  see  the 
horses.  It  struck  the  Colonel  as  pathetic,  being 
the  boy  he  was ;  and  he  stopped  to  converse  with 
him,  kindly. 

"I  asked  if  he  had  been  betting,"  said  the  Col- 
onel to  Henry,  after  dinner.  "And  he  told  me  he 
couldn't  risk  it.  So  of  course  I  asked  who  the 
lady  was,  and  when  was  the  happy  day." 

He  blinked  wisely  at  Henry  across  the  board. 
The  pair  were  lingering  late  in  the  good  old 
Wicken  dining  room,  on  this  his  nephew's  first 
night  at  home. 

"You  knew  already!"  challenged  Henry. 

"Well,  the  girl  told  us  he  was  in  love,"  said  the 
Colonel. 

"What  girl?" 

"The  Lane  girl,— Maud." 

"Oh."  At  this  point,  Henry  took  Maudie  into 
his  scheme  of  things :  he  had  rather  overlooked 


230  MADAM 

her,  previously.  "Please  go  on,  Uncle,"  he  said 
politely. 

"I  spoke  to  the  boy  of  his  sister,  of  course :  her 
state,  and  so  on." 

"Just  so.  But  surely  he  did  not  need  remind- 
ing?" 

"No, — no.  It  struck  me,"  said  the  Colonel, 
smoking,  "that  her  state  had  rather  upset  the  boy. 
No  doubt,  in  the  circumstances,  he  felt  a  bit  re- 
sponsible." 

"Maudie's  state,  sir?  But  had  Mott  seen 
her?" 

"Yes,  yes:  he  went  down  there.  Has  your 
aunt  not  told  you?" 

"I've  hardly  seen  Auntie.  He  went  home,  did 
he?  Did  you  gather  when?" 

The  Colonel  had  evidently  not  gathered,  but 
Henry  did.  It  became  sufficiently  clear  to  him, 
as  his  uncle  pieced  his  information,  that  Mott 
had,  in  his  usual  manner,  raided  his  mother's 
house  in  her  absence,  most  probably  the  same 
night  that  he  took  Titus  home.  To  be  sure  he 
had, — so  soon  as  Henry  got  wind  of  it,  it  gave 
him  the  sense  of  the  clean  inevitable  of  all  that 
Lancaster  did.  He  had  returned  the  stolen  steed 
to  the  stable  of  his  fathers,  piously:  and  picked 


PENNY   ROSES  231 

up  pious  little  Maud  en  passant,  to  get  her 
prayers 

"She's  a  good  girl,"  the  Colonel  was  saying, 
when  Henry  came  to  earth  again  from  this  ex- 
cursion. "She  forgave  him." 

"Forgave  her  brother?    That's  right 

I'm  glad,"  said  Henry,  gazing  at  his  uncle  across 
the  board,  and  feeling  for  the  manorial  attitude, 
"that  Lane  went  in  person.  It's  doing  the 
straight  thing." 

"The  straight  thing,"  said  dear  Robert  rather 
gravely,  "would  have  been  to  face  the  music,  that 
is  his  mother,  and  have  it  out.  If  Maud  forgave 
him,  how  much  more — eh?" 

He  blinked,  for  a  time,  peacefully.  Henry 
was  silent.  Next,  dear  Robert  blinked  at  him, 
and  took  in  his  disagreement,  being  a  canny  old 
warrior.  Of  course  he  had  not  so  far  troubled 
to  go  into  the  finer  shades,  about  the  Lane  affairs. 
He  judged  them  on  certain  broad  principles, 
plain  to  roughness,  though  kind.  His  nephew's 
titivating  amused  him,  though  he  never  gave  way 
to  it  seriously.  He  trusted  Henry  would  not  titi- 
vate the  estate,  over-whimsically,  when  he  was 
gone. 

"She's  a  hard  woman,"  noted  the  Colonel.    "I 


232  MADAM 

thought,  when  I  was  last  at  Wandsley,  the  girl 
had  a  life." 

"She's  as  hard  as  nails,"  said  Henry,  "or  pig- 
iron.  I  think,  Uncle,  pig-iron  is  the  thing.  What 

is  it,  by  the  way? Uncle,  I  have  wanted 

for  some  time  to  talk  to  you  about  the  Lanes. 
You  know,  I  regard  them  as  friends  of  mine." 

"Very  good  lads,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Yes,  I 
know  that's  your  way  of  talking:  but  they  were 
very  good  lads.  Of  course,  Chris  was  a  thought 
— still,  I  must  say  I  liked  him.  He  was  a  keen 
lad.  His  principles — " 

"His  principles  were  odd,  rather  than  non- 
existent," said  Henry. 

"A  bit  off  the  lines,"  said  dear  Robert.  "Lived 
hard,  and  so  on:  went  the  pace  shockin'ly, — I 
mean,  for  a  boy  in  that  class.  It  hardly  affected 
his  work,  though,  which  is  of  course  the  great 
thing—" 

"Uncle!" 

The  Colonel  blinked  at  him,  in  a  manner  hint- 
ing a  rebellion  against  women's  judgment  in  gen- 
eral, had  Henry  encouraged  him;  but  of  course 
Henry,  with  his  aunt  upstairs  in  mind,  did  not. 
It  carried  him  straight  back  into  the  old  days, 
this  conversation,  in  this  place,  and  that  look 


PENNY   ROSES  233 

upon  the  Colonel's  countenance :  days  when  the 
battle  was  waged  weekly  over  Chris's  handsome 
head.  "Really,  Robert,  he  ought  to  go," — he 
could  hear  her  rose-leaf  accents  of  reproba- 
tion   Henry  smiled:  and,  faintly,  so  did 

the  Colonel. 

"I  remember  the  day  I  dismissed  him,"  he 
said,  drooping  reflective.  "I  said  I  was  sorry  in 

many  ways And  Chris  says  to  me,  he 

was  too." 

"Did  he  really,  Uncle?    What  cheek!" 

"Well,"  said  the  Colonel,  "it  was  pert,  young 
rooster:  still,  I  felt  pleased I  remem- 
ber, I  shook  hands  with  him :  I  shall  always  be 

glad,  poor  lad,  that  I  shook  hands He 

kept  the  horses  as  never  before  or  since,  that's  the 
fact  of  it.  You  remember  poor  Dinah,  Henry, 
how  he  kept  her,  cared  for  her  too.  I  used  often 
to  say  to  Chris,  I'd  recommend  him  anywhere  as 
a  lady's  maid." 

"Probably  Mott's  work,"  commented  Henry, 
head  down,  like  his  uncle.  "Chris,  in  those  days, 
was  always  getting  kudos  for  Mott.  He  used  to 
recite  me  his  ill-gotten  testimonials,  grinning, — 
hey,  dear!"  He  raised  his  head.  "Uncle  Rob- 
ert!" 


234  MADAM 

"Yes,  my  boy?" 

"Was  Mott  sorry  about  Maudie?" 

^"Sorry?  Why  yes,  I  was  telling  you.  Boy 
had  nothing  to  call  manners  on  him,  but  I  knew 
what  it  meant.  Her  state  vexed  him,  reproached 
him, — and  he  had  to  leave  her.  Of  course  he  had 
to, — Sunday  evening, — last  train  to  town — " 

Henry  nodded.  "Lancaster  regretting  his  im- 
pulses," he  murmured.  "O  God,  what  an  inter- 
view!" 

The  Colonel  stared  at  him,  slow,  but  getting  it. 

"Wonderful  of  you,"  said  Henry,  looking  at 
him  full  and  cordially,  "to  find  it  out.  Lanes  are 
not  easy  to  get  at,  on  family  affairs:  I  know 
that." 

"Very  affectionate,"  commented  the  Colonel, 
picking  up  impressions  as  they  rose.  "Of  course 
I  knew  it,  having  seen  the  little  girl.  Cecy  had 
the  letter  too."  (Cecy  was  Miss  Wicken.) 
"Those  big  broods  often  rub  together  well,  sur- 
prisingly: learn  to  put  up,  living  on  top  of  one 
another, — hey?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  Uncle,  being  solus,"  said 
Henry.  "I'd  have  thought  you  know,  it  would 
act  the  other  way.  I  should  say  it  was  health 
kept  them  friendly,  if  you  asked  me;  they  were 


PENNY  ROSES  235 

all  such  jolly  good  feeders,  and  so  fond  of  life. 

Anyhow,  it's  the  fact:  I  know  Mott's 

been  grieving,  for  Maudie.  The  only  two  left, 
you  see :  and  he  had  not  seen  her  since." 

"Eh?"  The  Colonel,  whose  glance  had 
strayed,  eyed  him  afresh,  with  that  momentary 
fixity  of  age,  blank  almost,  registering  resistance 
to  a  shock  renewed.  "Not  since — the  only  two — 

I  had  forgotten But,  Lord  save  us!"  he 

broke  out.  "They  should  be  together,  the  girl 
and  boy,  sister  and  brother,  last  two  left  on  earth! 

What  on  earth  separates  them  now? 

What,  because  he  took  a  roll  in  the  mire,  after 
all  that,  and  got  mixed  with  his  brother's  mis- 
tresses? Why,  it's  out  of  reason — "  puffed  dear 
Robert. 

"Out  of  reason,"  echoed  Henry,  "and  utterly 
unjust."  He  echoed  it  not  loud,  but  with  a  par- 
ticular emphasis.  He  did  not  try  to  alter  the 
manorial  attitude  opposite,  but  only  to  add  to  it. 
It  was  very  wise. 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  close  and  sharp  a 
moment:  then  his  flash  of  interest  faded,  his 
worn  mind,  well-guarded  on  the  last  lap  of  life, 
retreated  again.  Still,  the  vivid  emotion  had 
been  there,  and  Henry's  ready  response  had 


236  MADAM 

stamped  it;    now,  at  any  time,  it  might  be  re- 
newed, and  turned  to  account. 

For  Henry  felt,  that  in  the  matter  of  the  Lanes, 
he  had  really  neglected  both  his  uncle's  interest 
and  his  influence.  Why,  the  Colonel  could 
knock  Widow  Lane  to  pieces  at  need:  hammer 
pig-iron  (whatever  it  was)  to  suit  her  own  do- 
mestic uses,  or  rather,  those  of  Maudie  and  Mott. 
Who,  Henry  suddenly  wondered,  had  got  Chris's 
money,  medals,  properties?  Probably  Mrs. 
Lane,  every  penny  of  it.  Most  of  her  other  sons 
were  married.  Really,  she  needed  a  little  knock- 
ing into  shape! 


Ill 

THUS  ruminating,  Henry  left  his  uncle  sitting 
in  contemplation,  and  went  on  to  the  drawing 
room. 

Miss  Wicken,  by  candle-light  in  the  gloaming, 
like  any  one  of  her  ancestresses,  was  doing 
needle-work;  for  Henry's  chairs  now,  his  cur- 
tains being  hung.  The  silken  curtains,  in  his 
turret  room,  with  their  bright,  clear  colours,  as 
of  light  through  glass,  were  a  joy  for  ever;  and 
Henry,  naturally,  was  horrified  by  the  amouat  of 
work  displayed,  when  they  came  to  be  unrolled. 
He  had  only  seen  the  butterflies  piecemeal,  pre- 
viously; now  he  saw  them  in  the  curtain-scheme, 
with  the  several  roses  they  attended  and  sipped, 
— wonderful !  His  aunt  was  greater  than  he  had 
thought  her:  she  was  great  as  well  as  good. 
Convinced  of  this,  he  sat  at  her  feet  upon  a  cush- 
ion, and  read  Maudie's  letter,  which  was  waiting 
for  him  in  Miss  Wicken's  workbasket. 

"I  was  keeping  it  for  you,  dear,  since  she  men- 
tions Dermot,"  soothed  Miss  Wicken.  "She 

237 


238  MADAM 

writes  very  well-formed  letters;  always  one  of 
the  best  children, — the  very  best." 

Miss  Wicken,  in  her  Kultur-classes  for  the 
elder  girls  at  the  village  school,  had  been  used 
to  instil,  not  only  new  principles  of  drawing,  but 
of  writing  too.  It  threw  out  all  existing  educa- 
tional standards,  which  proved  her  to  be  at  heart 
a  revolutionary,  and  a  dangerous  female.  But, 
though  frequently  warned  of  this,  by  Henry, 
Miss  Wicken  pursued  her  wicked  way. 

"Why  doesn't  she  date  it?"  said  Henry,  hop- 
ing to  catch  his  aunt  out,  as  instructress. 

"She  does,  dear,  at  the  end." 

"Why  does  she  date  it  at  the  end?"  said 
Henry. 

"It  looks  better  on  the  page,"  said  Miss 
Wicken. 

"Aunt,  how  ridiculous! Why"  said 

Henry,  severely,  looking  at  the  date  of  Maudie's 
letter,  "have  I  not  heard  of  this  before?" 

"I  am  sorry,  dear.  I  have  heaps  of  her  letters, 
poor  child.  This  one  had  been  waiting  for  me, 
here,  for  some  time,  when  I  got  back." 

Henry  sighed,  and  settled  to  Maudie.  He 
hated  pious  things 


PENNY   ROSES  239 

"8  Market  Street,  Wandsley, 
"Dear  Miss,"  wrote  Maudie, 

"Mott  came  to  see  me  in  Mother's  absence, 
but  I  could  not  refuse  him,  since  it  was  God's 
will  he  came.  I  did  not  expect  him,  having 
only  asked  for  that.  He  told  me  he  had  taken 
Mr.  Henry's  horse,  and  that,  but  returned  it, 
thinking  better,  and  I  might  tell  you  he  was 
sorry  if  I  liked.  O,  I  hope  you  will  forgive 
him!  It  is  wildness  in  him,  but  no  harm.  He 
held  me  till  I  promised  to  forgive  him  all 
things.  I  could  not  help  it  he  is  grown  so 
strong  and  like  the  others,  and  would  be  mar- 
ried, Miss,  he  says.  A  young  lady,  he  says, 
earning  well,  and  it  seemed  to  me,  while  he 
went  on,  Mother  might  not  dislike  her.  I 
think  it  was  too  hard  for  Mott,  the  boys  going 
and  all,  so  he  strayed  for  a  time.  This  War 
was  too  much  for  us  through  trial  to  be  per- 
fected, which  is  one  way.  He  and  I  are  very, 
very  far.  I  told  him  I  was  as  bad  in  heart,  and 
I  made  it  harder  for  him  weakly  when  he  had 
to  go,  for  I  thought  he  would  stay  a  bit  and 
seen  Mother,  but  he  would  not.  I  was  to  tell 
her  if  I  saw  fit,  but  then  I  left  it,  she  spoke  so 
of  him  when  I  told  her  his  prospects,  or  hopes 


240  MADAM 

of  them,  which  was  all  I  said.  She  wrote  him 
that  night  to  keep  off  from  us,  with  his  women. 
I  fear  I  made  it  worse  for  Mott,  unmeaning: 
but  I  thought,  for  all  George's  children  in  the 
house  at  present,  we  might  have  made  room." 

"I  see  what  she  means,"  said  Miss  Wicken, 
leaning  over  helpfully,  when  Henry  still  sat  sta- 
tionary studying  this.  There  was  a  little  more  at 
the  end,  apparently  about  embroidery;  and  an- 
other still  smaller  department  of  proper  mes- 
sages: but  the  parts  were  compact  and  divided, 
as  is  most  rare  in  these  documents;  and  Henry 
had  noted  without  trouble  which  was  meant  for 
him. 

"Means?  It  is  clear  as  day,"  he  exclaimed, 
"and  as  bright.  Maudie  is  as  brainy,  evidently, 
as  all  the  rest.  She  prayed  for  God's  will,  rather 
than  Mother's,  and  Mott  came;  and  so  she  did 
not  vex  her  blessed  conscience  further,  but  had  a 
good  time.  That's  the  purest  logic,  quite  worthy 
of  Lancaster's  sister.  George's  children  in  the 
house, — make  room  for  him, — she'd  make  room 
for  anybody,  little  angel !  What's  her  age  ?" 

"Seventeen,  I  suppose,"  Miss  Wicken  reck- 
oned. 


PENNY   ROSES  241 

"Jolly  good  hand  she  writes, — like  yours, 
Auntie.  Is  she  a  pretty  girl?" 

"Well,  dear,  she  was  always  a  nice  little  thing. 
Surely  you  remember?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I  remember  nothing 

Yes,  I  remember  Chris  carrying  something,  with 
the  usual  cheeks  and  eyes,  and  pretending  to 
chuck  it  into  the  river  on  the  foot-bridge, — des- 
perately dangerous,  but  she  shrieked  with  de- 
light. She's  spunk  too,  probably Oh, 

she  must  be  pretty,  Aunt!  Why,  Chris  would 
never  have  played  with  her  otherwise.  Would 
he?" 

"All  those  rough  brothers,"  soothed  Miss 
Wicken,  stroking  a  silk  rose  with  her  needle.  "I 
used  to  be  sorry  for  the  poor  little  thing." 

"Aunt,  you  are  obstinate!  I  am  pointing  out 
to  you  that  the  poor  little  thing  revelled  in  it: 
that  she  must  be  a  spunky,  brainy  little  thing  by 
rights,  a  Queen  of  the  Prairies,  like  those  cinema- 
darlings  with  sun-hats  and  rolling  eyes,  and  long, 
strong  legs — " 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see  her,  dear?"  asked 
Miss  Wicken,  after  one  of  Henry's  sudden 
pauses. 

"Because  I  won't,"  said  Henry.    "I've  no  taste 


242  MADAM 

for  Biblical  invalids:  I  might  any  day  be  one 

myself Aunt,  listen!  I  shall  write  and 

tell  Mott  to  really  raid,  and  carry  Maudie  off: — 
I  shall !  He'd  fall  into  cinema-style  fast  enough, 
— he'd  even  find  the  costume, — " 

"Don't  dear, — please  don't!"  said  Miss 
Wicken,  really  nervous.  "She's  not  fit  for  any 
excitement, — Dr.  Farrar  was  saying — " 

"But  that's  why  she  would  love  it,"  said  Henry, 
barring  doctors  with  a  hand.  "Look  down  here, 
how  she  dwells  on  his  having  'grown  so  strong 
and  like  the  others,' — in  youth,  you  see,  he  was 
next  to  her,  so  she  probably  liked  him  least." 

"But  how  could  Dermot  look  after  her,  with 
the  other  girl  already?"  pleaded  Miss  Wicken, 
sweetly  reasonable. 

"The  two  other  girls,"  corrected  Henry.  "Oh, 
dash  it!— I  guess  Dermot'd  manage,  Aunt.  He'd 
— hustle  around,  for  Maudie.  He'd  hunt  an- 
other house — " 

"Don't  guess  things,  dear,  it's  so  American," 
was  Miss  Wicken's  final  effort:  absent,  though, 
because  the  rose  absorbed  her.  It  was  broaden- 
ing, flushing  as  it  broadened,  towards  the  but- 
terfly-to-be  


PENNY   ROSES  243 

Henry  ceased  guessing,  about  Lancaster :  after 
all,  guessing,  with  such  characters  is  singularly 
little  use.  Instead,  he  dreamed  and  dreamed  of 
the  raid  of  Maudie:  thrown  over  a  horse,  oddly 
of  Titus'  allure  and  dimensions.  Titus  would  do 
cinema  perfectly:  he  was  fidgetting  for  it,  down 
in  Henry's  stable :  and  with  Mott  in  the  saddle 
for  choice.  And  Mrs.  Lane  calling  vengeance  in 
the  background,  perhaps  with  a  birch-broom, — 
futile, — better  than  any  cinema  of  the  lot  of 
them !  It  was  a  picture  he  loved. 

Only  he  knew,  of  course,  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble; that  Paish's  Lane,  the  other  one,  the  penny- 
plain  workman,  had  entertained  the  whole  of  it, 
— including  Titus,  probably:  and  abandoned  it 
as  ricketty,  as  fluffy,  as  worthy  only  of  wealthy 
idlers, — long  ago. 


IV 

MONA  told  Mott  that  she  would  go  out  on  to  the 
race-course,  with  Jock,  while  the  horses  were 
running,  and  beautifully  end  her  life.  Some 
woman  or  other  had  done  that  once,  Eric  had 
told  her:  and  the  natural  splendour  of  it  stuck 
in  her  memory. 

She  told  her  brother  this  in  his  new  room,  at 
Epsom,  which  she  had  not  seen  previously;  and 
its  smallness  and  dulness  affected  her  while  she 
talked.  She  had  herself  been  out  on  the  downs 
all  day  with  Eric,  and  felt  grand,  physically; 
only  somewhere,  lurking  within  her,  she  felt 
miserable  too;  so  she  wished  to  make  Mousie 
feel  as  bad,  which  was  mere  habit,  in  Mona. 
The  first  method  that  prompted  itself  was  to 
threaten  self-extinction;  especially  as  she  was 
not  at  all  sure  she  did  not  mean  to  accomplish  it, 
this  time. 

"Do  it  without  the  kid,  can't  you?"  said  Mott, 
a  hand  shading  his  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you — ?"  cried  Mona, 
outraged  in  her  maternal  feelings.  Was  Jock 

244 


PENNY   ROSES  245 

not  her  property,  and  could  she  not  use  him  as 
she  saw  fit? 

"Well,  wait  and  ask  him,"  said  Mott.  "He 
might  not  want  to  be — kicked  to  death,  just  to 
make  a  flare-up  for  you." 

"You're  drunk,  Mouse,"  said  Mona,  looking 
at  him  aghast,  as  he  sat  there  writing.  Kicked  to 
death?  How  dared  he?  She  turned  lachry- 
mose. "It's  not  to  make  a  flare-up,  it  isn't,"  she 
wailed. 

"Why  is  it  then?"  He  threw  his  pen  down. 
"Let's  hear."  He  thought  it  had  better  come, 
since  he  was  interrupted  already.  He  knew  she 
had  been  simply  spoiling  for  a  scene,  for  days. 

Mott  had  hoped  that  a  week  of  racing  and 
bracing  in  the  open  air  would  set  Mona  up  and 
keep  her  quiet,  especially  with  Eric  and  his  purse 
to  help.  His  own  hours  were  longer  than  ever, 
in  the  giddy  season:  but  Eric,  an  old  acquaint- 
ance of  both,  had  volunteered  to  take  her  out,  in 
preference  to  newer  girls:  very  kind  of  him. 
As  a  fact,  Mona  was  more  beautiful  than  most  of 
the  newer  girls;  she  had  recovered  much  of  her 
life  and  force,  and  the  place  and  country  sur- 
roundings suited  her.  It  was  what  she  had  been 
born  to ;  though  her  present  cottage  was  inferior, 


246  MADAM 

a  mere  hovel:  cheap.  Mona's  parents  at  Wands- 
ley  had  lived  in  far  better  style :  that  she  rarely, 
in  her  comments  on  life,  let  her  brother  forget. 
As  a  rule  he  laughed  at  her,  but  he  could  not  al- 
ways :  the  problem  of  the  future,  now-a-days,  ab- 
sorbed him  too  much. 

Recently  she  had  relieved,  and  rather  sur- 
prised him,  by  going  of  her  own  accord  out  to 
work,  and  earning  a  little  for  the  beautifying  of 
herself  and  baby, — most  of  it  she  wasted,  but  the 
effort  was  good.  Mona  was  living  at  Epsom  as  a 
war-widow,  and  had  not  at  present  altered  that 
effective  course  to  suit  anyone  who  asked  her. 
She  liked  being  a  war-widow:  everybody 
seemed  to  admire  it,  in  her  new  surroundings, 
and  Jock  was  finer  by  degrees  than  any  of  the 
neighbour's  children,  thanks  to  "Mouse."  She 
admitted  that  Mouse  had  something  to  do  with 
it.  With  a  little  work  and  plenty  of  fun,  she 
really  led  an  excellent  life;  and  had  small  wish 
to  change  it, — at  any  rate  for  the  Epsom  men. 
And  then  came  along  Eric,  in  Mouse's  absence, 
— old  Eric,  about  whom  Mona  knew  most  things, 
and  indeed  a  good  deal  too  much, — and  while 
pretending  to  treat  and  amuse  her,  blasted  her 
prospects,  and  cut  her  to  the  heart. 


PENNY   ROSES  247 

Mona  had  been  desperately  miserable,  owing 
to  Eric,  for  two  days.  Could  words  be  bad 
enough  for  him?  She  used  them  all. 

"There's  a  darling  boy,"  said  Mona,  to  Mouse, 
charmed  by  his  change  of  aspect.  "You  love  me, 
don't  you?" 

"All  you  need,"  said  Mott.    But  he  smiled. 

"You  do  love  me !"  triumphed  Mona.  "I  told 
that — you  did!" 

"Eric? Look  here,  draw  up  a  bit, 

Mona.  What's  Eric  been  saying  about  me?" 

"Said  you  were  tired  of  me."  Mona  added 
some  ornate  detail :  she  had  been  much  moved. 
"You're  not,  are  you,  Mouse?  Look  at  me." 

He  looked,  in  a  fashion  she  believed.  Always, 
on  these  occasions,  he  reassured  her  first,  for  it 
was  most  necessary.  Mona  frightened  was 
Mona  fiendish.  He  rather  supposed  Eric  had 
frightened  her,  and  he  did  not  thank  Eric.  He 
wondered  a  little  what  Eric's  stunt  was, — proba- 
bly well-meant,  but  not  necessarily  wise.  Eric, 
Chris's  first  friend,  or  rather  boon-companion, 
was  not  always  a  wise  person ;  and  Mona,  as  Eric 
ought  to  know,  was  ticklish  material. 

"Now  then,"  he  said,  when  she  had  fussed 
about  him  a  little.  "How  much  have  you  lost?" 


248  MADAM 

"Lost?" 

"I  love  you  enough,  anyway,  to  pay  your 
debts." 

"You  don't,  then  !"  triumphed  Mona.  "Debts, 
he  says !  Look  here — "  she  sat  on  the  table,  to  the 
dread  disarrangement  of  his  papers :  also  to  her 
own  danger,  for  it  was  ricketty.  "You  go  and 
grouse  to  him  that  I'm  an  expense  to  you." 

"Oh,"  thought  Mott.  He  dropped  his  money 
thoughtfully  into  his  pocket  again. 

"And  you  sit  here,"  said  Mona  to  the  Heavens, 
"swanking  at  your  silly  writing,  and  thinking  of 
someone  else." 

"Oh,"  thought  Mott. 

"With  the  room  in  a  state,"  said  Mona,  "books 
and  rubbish  all  over  the  floor, — and  never  ask  me 
to  come  and  tidy  them." 

"You  leave  those  things  alone,"  said  Mott. 
"Mona,  listen, — listen  here,  and  let  those  things 
alone.  Mona, — Eric  lied.  You  go  back  to  Jock 
and  let  me  study.  See?  I'll — I'll  think  of  you 
instead,  for  a  bit,  if  you  go." 

"Will  you?" 

"Honest." 

"Instead  of  that  nasty  pale  thing?" 

"Right— o." 


PENNY   ROSES  249 

"Look  at  me,"  ordered  Mona.  He  did  so, 
shyly,  with  an  effort.  "You  think  you're  blessed 
clever,"  she  said  slowly.  "All  you  lads  do.  That 

dirty — does,  I  shouldn't  wonder You're 

a  little  silly,  Mouse.  Aren't  you?"  She  put  her 
hands  to  either  side  of  his  face  a  moment,  quite 
gently.  "Oh,  my  God !"  With  a  groan-like  sigh 
she  slipped  from  her  seat,  turned  round,  and  sim- 
ply obeyed  him :  went  languidly  from  the  room. 

"Now,  what's  Eric  been  after?"  thought 
Mott,  when  he  recovered.  He  did  not  like  to  be 
called  a  little  silly,  by  Mona,  naturally;  he  re- 
jected the  charge:  but  still 

"He's  wasted  my  evening,  anyway,"  he 
thought,  when  twelve  struck. 


ERIC  and  Mona  had  had  a  political  argument. 
That  was  all  that  had  happened. 

It  occurred  a  day  or  two  previous  to  the  above 
dialogue,  and  by  her  own  fireside.  Mona's  hovel 
was  not  half  a  bad  little  cottage,  really,  and, 
though  a  casual  housekeeper,  she  had  learnt  to 
keep  it  straight.  Jock,  now-a-days  talkative,  had 
been  silenced  for  the  occasion  with  sticky  cake. 
Jock,  with  a  brand-new  hat  on,  bought  by  Eric, 
and  rakishly  bestowed,  was  regarding  them 
under  supercilious  eyelids  at  intervals,  while  the 
political  "stunt"  went  on.  It  hardly  did  for  Eric 
to  look  at  him,  he  was  too  eerily  like  Chris,  his 
old  companion;  still,  it  gave  him  nerve,  for  his 
present  effort  in  Chris's  cause:  for  that  was 
really  what  it  amounted  to. 

Mona  had  had  a  very  pleasant  outing:  Eric 
had  paid  up  every  penny  she  had  lost,  with  the 
most  cheerful  generosity,  and  her  luck  had  been 
vile.  Then,  after  a  magnificent  tea,  most  of 
which  he  also  provided,  he  started  his  "stunt," — 
just  as  though  the  rest  had  been  mere  insidious 

250 


PENNY   ROSES  251 

preparation.  No  wonder,  when  Mona  came  to 
think  it  over,  she  called  him  awful  names. 

The  link  between  the  pair  was  loose  and  odd, 
but  not  unfriendly ;  Chris's  death  had  solved  any 
difficult  element  their  intercourse  contained. 
Once,  in  the  golden  days,  and  their  native  town, 
they  had  been  more  than  friendly;  but  Chris's 
great  glory  had  knocked  Eric  out.  There  had 
been  bitterness  for  a  time,  until  the  son  of  the 
bank,  rapidly  prospering,  had  discovered  other 
interests.  The  War  came,  and  the  world  turned 
round. 

Now  Mona  genuinely  did  not  want  Eric,  for 
all  his  cars  and  horses:  largely  because  of  that, 
— she  was  a  strange  girl.  She  scorned  Eric's 
war-wealthiness,  or  said  she  did.  Her  allusions 
to  his  "blood-money"  had  been  free,  during  the 
outing  just  over, — though  she  relieved  him  of  it 
as  freely.  Eric  was  useful,  in  short,  and  at  times 
pleasant:  but  he  would  not  do  in  Chris's  place: 
there  was  a  proportion  in  things.  Eric,  on  his 
side,  did  not  want  Mona ;  not  exactly  that  he  de- 
spised her  in  return,  but  that  there  were  fresher 
interests.  He  would,  however,  willingly  have 
supported  her,  for  Mouse's  sake,  to  relieve  his 
finances.  This  was  the  somewhat  complicated 


252  MADAM 

attitude  of  Eric,  sentimentally,  that  Mona,  with 
her  fiendish  female  instinct,  ferretted  out.  Hav- 
ing haunted  her  intelligence  during  the  day, 
owing  to  his  allusions,  it  came  to  her  suddenly  at 
tea,  while  he  was  talking.  The  whole  of  it  came 
to  her:  she  showed  it  by  colouring  scarlet,  and 
gazing  at  Eric,  stiffly  and  hard. 

So  that  was  how  she  was  regarded,  by  these 
daily  men  of  hers!  Suicide  occurred  to  her  in- 
stantly,— instantly 

"I  should  have  thought  you  could  have  paid 
the  house,  if  that's  all,"  she  said  contemptuously. 
"You've  money  enough." 

"He  won't  have  it." 

"Meaning  you've  tried?" 

"I've  suggested  it,  yes.    Now  don't,  Mona!" 

"Meaning  he  doesn't  care  for  me?" 

"Oh,  he's  fond  of  you,  right  enough,  and  you 
know  it.  Of  course  he  wants  to  marry,  now. 
Don't!" 

She  fell  into  heart-broken  tears.  "Get  out," 
she  said  to  Eric  at  last.  "You've  done  me,  if 

that's  all I  tell  you,  he's  earning  well,  at 

the  works, — he  told  me.  I'm  earning  too." 

"He's  not  your  servant,"  said  Eric,  desperate. 

"He'd  have  done  it  for  Chris,"  sobbed  Mona, 


PENNY   ROSES  253 

retreating  upon  Jock  as  defence,  and  knocking 
his  hat  a  little  more  sideways. 

Eric  reflected  a  little.  "You  talk  of  Chris 
pretty  easy,  Mona,"  he  said  presently.  "Do  you 
remember  him?" 

"Get  out,"  sobbed  Mona,  making  herself 
sticky  with  Jock. 

"Chris  says  to  me  once  of  Mousie — 'He's  stuff 
in  him.  He's  slower  than  me,  but  more  stuff,'  he 
says.  'He'll  go  far,  given  his  chance,' — given 
his  chance,  mark  that!"  said  Eric  excitably 
''What  chance  has  he  at  the  present  time?  Have 
you  seen  his  new  room?" 

"He  can  come  and  live  here,"  sulked  Mona. 

"Oh,  that's  your  game,  is  it?"  thought  Eric,  on 
the  hearth-rug,  getting  the  ash  off  his  cigarette. 

"I'd  take  care  of  him  better  than  those  women 
he  has."  (She  meant  landladies.) 

"Ah Does  he  see  it?" 

"You  go  to  hell,"  said  Mona,  sulky.  She  put 
Jock's  hat  straight.  "I  know  what  I  know. 
He'd  have  done  it  for  Chris." 

"Done  what? Look  here,  Mona,  you're 

muddled.  Pull  it  straight.  I'm  telling  you 
Chris  cared  for  him.  See?" 

"I  can  see  a  haystack,"  said  Mona.    "And  hear 


254  MADAM 

it  too.  What  about  this?"  She  clung  to  Jock, 
her  best  argument.  "Didn't  Chris  care  for  this 
as  much  as  that  young — ?" 

"No,  he  didn't,"  thought  Eric;  he  did  not  as- 
sert it  openly,  for  fear  of  the  elements. 

Besides,  Mona  knew  just  how  much,  and  how 
little,  Christopher  had  cared  for  Jock,  or  the 
prospect  of  Jock.  He  would  have  cared  for  him 
grown,  doubtless;  as  soon  as  he  talked,  and  had 
sense  and  devilry;  as  it  was,  he  certainly  pre- 
ferred Mousie :  certainly.  Mousie  he  could  talk 
to,  rant  to,  and  ride  over  when  necessary.  He 
could  score  off  him,  hurt  his  feelings  rather 
badly,  and  then  make  it  up  by  ten  minutes'  Olym- 
pian fun  and  benignity.  Eric  had  never  seen  a 
boy  so  played  upon,  every  fibre  of  him,  as  Mouse 
had  been  by  Chris  during  the  Wandsley  period; 
but  that  Chris  cared  for  him,  that  he  was  proud 
of  him  at  private  moments, — why,  it  took  Mona 
in  her  worst  mood  to  doubt  that. 

"I'll  keep  Jock  going,  I  tell  you,"  said  Eric. 
"Haven't  I  given  him  that  hat?" 

Mona  looked  at  the  hat,  dull-eyed.  Lately  she 

had  liked  it  so "He'd  have  done  it  for 

Chris,"  she  said,  obstinate  and  stupid.  Eric  let 

go- 


PENNY   ROSES  255 

"You  can't  be  bound  by  the  dead,"  he  said,  ris- 
ing and  pacing  the  cottage  floor.  "He  can't,  any- 
way: he's  made  to  go  forward.  Look  here, — 
suppose  he  was  to  be  something,  and  you're  ham- 
pering, and  you'd  be  sorry  some  day.  Well, — 
couldn't  you  have  me  then?" 

"Have   you?     After   this?     There,   Jock,— 
there's   your  pretty  father!"      Her  scorn  was 
fierce. 

"And  you  pretend  to  care  for  the  world!" 
flashed  back  Eric,  magnificent.  .  "For  progress, 
don't  you?  Hanging  like  that  on  a  man  who 

could   help It's  jealousy.     You   don't 

want  him  to  marry.  You'd  keep  him  slave  if  you 
could, — servant.  And  that's  your  blessed  Social- 
ism!" cried  Eric. 

It  was,  to  Mona,  electrifying.  She  only  saw 
the  point,  intellectually,  for  two  seconds,  and  she 
could  never  have  argued  it  out  again.  (Nor 
could  Eric,  probably.)  She  sent  him  packing, 
on  the  spot,  sulked  at  him  publicly  for  two  days, 
and  had  a  fine  scene,  detailed,  with  Mott,  as  soon 
as  fate  and  temper  gave  her  the  opportunity;  but 
the  point  got  through :  to  her  heart  of  course. 


256  MADAM 

There  was  nothing  else,  even  politically,  in 
Mona,  for  it  to  penetrate. 

Two  days  later  again,  she  called  on  "Mouse" 
in  his  new  room,  early  morning  this  time,  and 
kissed  him,  and  straightened  it  for  him  as  she 
could,  and  gave  him  at  parting  a  little  kettle- 
holder  towards  his  housekeeping,  which  she  had 
worked  with  her  own  hands.  A  little  blessing  it 
was,  from  the  oldest  of  all  worlds, — Eve's  world, 
— for  the  work  he  had  done. 

"And  you  say  she's  no  sense,"  said  Mott,  deep- 
ly moved,  dwelling  on  this  to  Eric.  "I  tell  you, 
she  feels  things  all  through  her.  Truth  she 
does!" 

Eric,  silent,  looking  showy  and  stupid,  never 
confessed  the  part  he  had  played. 


VI 

PROBABLY  because,  howsoever  truly  felt  Eric's 
"stunt"  was,  he  could  not  find  words  for  it;  he 
had  not  Henry's  gift  of  conversation.  To  Mott, 
and  to  "Miss  Lina,"  the  two  persons  Mona's 
problem  most  concerned,  Eric  could  talk  least, 
though  he  worked  as  above  in  their  interest. 
How  Mott  solved  in  prospect  the  problem  under 
his  daily  gaze,  as  he  sat  in  his  chosen  hole,  Eric 
never  knew,  though  he  knew  it  absorbed  him. 
As  for  Miss  Astley,  Eric  had  been  introduced  to 
her,  and  so  forth,  correctly,  and  had  conducted 
her  for  a  motor-outing,  once;  but  talk  to  such  a 
girl — or  write  to  her — He  had  tried  to  write  to 
Miss  Lina  about  six  times. 

Then,  of  course,  not  being  Henry,  he  dropped 
it,  and  spoke  to  Foote,  whom  he  still  patronised. 
With  Foote  he  got  so  far  as  to  sketch  something 
of  his  theories,  and  his  scheme. 

"My  idea  is,"  sketched  Eric,  "she'll  not  let  me 
take  her  on,  or  anyone  else,  till  he's  married,— 
see?    Fair  married,  she'll  fall  in,  as  like  as  not, 
easy.    There'd  be  no  troubling  the  family,  either 

257 


258  MADAM 

his,  or  hers:  all  that's  stage-fancy.  That  you 
could  let  them  know,  anyhow."  Fred  looked 
doubtful.  "He's  got  to  get  married/'  added 
Eric,  to  make  all  clear. 

"Easy  saying, — get  married,  these  days!" — for 
of  course  poor  Fred  was  trying,  hard.  "You  go 
and  try  yourself!"  said  Fred:  but  Eric  was  not 
thinking  of  his  small  affairs. 

"Well,  that's  my  way  of  it,"  he  resumed.  "As 
I  see  it,  she's  on  to  Mouse  not  so  much  for  him- 
self, as  for  his  being  one  of  that  lot, — it's  natu- 
ral." Fred  tried  to  follow.  "She  likes  to  look  at 
him,"  explained  Eric.  "It's  much  more  that, 

than  that  she  wants  him,  personally 

Though  of  course  she  does." 

"Would  you  have  me  tell  the  girl  that?" 
moaned  Fred.  "Or  her  mother?  You've  no 
notion  what  they  are, — never  heard  talk  of  such 
things,  probably." 

Eric  despaired,  and  resorted  to  drink  for  as- 
sistance. Foote  sat  and  looked  complacent  at 
joining  such  a  family  as  Mrs.  Astley's:  one  that 
had  never  "heard  talk"  of  anything  at  all. 

"She  knows  Mona,"  ventured  Eric,  at  last. 

"What? Lina?" 

"Well,  unless  Mousie's  a  liar,  she  does." 


PENNY   ROSES  259 

Foote  gaped  simply :  for  this  was  proof.  Eric 
regained  force,  before  his  fish-like  countenance. 

"There's  probably  more  in  her  than  you  know 
of,"  he  triumphed.  "In  both  of  them,  Mona  too, 
as  to  that.  I  tell  you,  they  take  to  the  right  girls, 
not  silly  little  wasters — "  He  ceased :  it  did  not 
do  to  hint  that  Foote  was  marrying  a  silly  too 
often,  though  both  he  and  Mott  had  a  time  of  it, 
not  to  do  so.  Mott  foresaw,  in  Eric's  private  ear 
(the  other  one)  that  Curly  would  grow  up  much 
like  her  mother,  unless  Foote  took  a  stronger 
line, — a  weighty  judgment.  Eric,  who  had  tried 
Curly  in  his  time,  and  in  spite  of  admiring  her 
playfully,  agreed.  There  ensued,  in  conse- 
quence, a  fresh  pause  in  this  already  difficult 
conversation.  Eric  simply  longed  to  get  the 
facts  of  Mona  "through"  to  Miss  Lina:  espe- 
cially since  he  knew  Mott  would  never  tell  her, 
— Mouse  would  die  of  Mona's  demands  on  him, 
first.  More,  Eric  was  certain  he  had  discovered, 
and  held,  a  solution, — but  here  was  Foote,  such 
a  wretched  medium,  and  looking  such  a  singular 

ass! It  might  come,  even  now,  to  Eric's 

tackling  the  girl  herself:  for  his  business- 
instincts  approved  her,  smart  and  quiet,  this  girl 
of  Mousie's.  Eric  had  watched  her,  keen-eyed, 


260  MADAM 

throughout  the  little  kinks  and  contretemps  of 
the  outing  alluded  to :  and  he  thought  she  might 
swallow  the  facts  of  Mona,  if  he  could  but — 
well! 

"Put  it  like  this,"  he  said  at  last.  "She  feels 
safer,  with  him  at  hand.  It's  safe  she  feels, — I 
tell  you  it's  natural  for  the  girl, — he  saved  her 
once That's  the  way  a  woman  is,"  mor- 
alised Eric,  "she'll  drown  a  man,  clinging  on  to 
him,  and  meaning  no  earthly  harm.  Mona 

means  none Now  my  idea  of  Miss  Lina 

is  different." 

"Ah,"  glowed  Freddy,  following,  "Lina 
wouldn't  drown  a  man,  not  either  of  them 
wouldn't,  for  that  matter,  Eric, — "  Eric's  aptness 
in  illustration,  and  critical  power,  seemed  to 
Freddy  quite  excellent,  ponderable  afterwards 
during  his  lonely  walks.  As  Eric  to  Foote,  so 
Mousie  to  Eric, — their  self-made  chain  was 
singularly  symmetrical 

Finally  Foote  said  he  would  get  in  a  word, 
with  Lina,  if  he  saw  a  chance:  but  of  course  he 
never  did  see  one.  It  was  sheer  pity  he  did  not, 
too,  for  Miss  Astley  would  have  understood  and 
met  him,  more  readily  and  cleverly  than  ever  be- 
fore in  her  gentle  life.  She  was  discovering  such 
wonders  of  life,  now,  and  weekly 


PENNY   ROSES  261 

Above  all  would  she  have  understood  the  lat- 
ter part,  Eric's  finishing  effort,  as  to  Mona  feel- 
ing "safe."  Did  she  not  herself  feel  safe,  when 
he  was  in  the  driving-seat? — how  much  more 
Mona!  Where  a  good  head,  heart  and  hand  are 
to  be  found,  there  is  the  nest  a  poor  girl  makes 
for;  and  that  Lanes  had,  for  all  their  wildness; 
and  that  even  a  Mona  will  miss,  and  go  seeking 
again,  once  found.  She  was  no  silly  drab,  in 
origin:  she  was  weak  enough,  but  she  was 
neither  a  social  problem,  nor  a  mere  woman 
(there  are  none)  :  she  was  a  girl  with  her  own 
possession  of  a  sweet  past  in  her:  a  girl  whom 
once, — in  a  rapture  of  her  own  rose-time,  fade- 
less and  unforfeitable, — Chris,  pound-wise  and 
penny-foolish,  had  picked  out  for  her  "sense." 

That  was  a  little  of  what  Eric  knew :  that  was 
what  he  tried  to  get  through  to  Lina,  by  all  means 
of  whispering  Wireless  at  his  command.  Mona 
would  never  harm  her  consciously, — she  could 

not Perhaps,  somehow,  when  Miss  Ast- 

ley  met  Eric's  eyes  in  society,  and  her  heart  went 
timidly  towards  that  old  friend,  the  wireless  harp 
sang  faintly,  and  carried  something.  For  daily, 
despite  our  impossible  socks  and  ties  it  does  so : 
the  miracle  of  Love  in  a  mute  world  be  thanked. 


VII 

"Dear   Miss   Astley,"    wrote    Henry,    rather 
tardily, 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  of  your  engage- 
ment. I  knew  something  of  Mr.  D.  Lane  in 
youth,  and  am  doing  what  I  can  to  renew  the 
acquaintance.  He  has  a  kind  of  nasty  pride, 
hasn't  he?  I  hope  you  will  see  your  way  to 
curing  him  of  it,  and  get  him  to  come  and  visit 
me.  You  can  recommend  me,  can't  you? — as 
decent  and  mild.  There  is  a  horse  here,  whose 
upsetting  qualities  are  known  to  him  pretty 
well  already.  He  might  just  as  well  educate 
him,  when  I  can't,  which  is  frequently. 

"I  wish  you  could  anyhow  get  to  know  his 
sister,  late  of  8  Market  Street,  Wandsley, — 
she  seems  such  a  nice  little  thing.  I  say  'late,' 
because  Miss  Lane  is  at  present  in  Wandsley 
Hospital,  which  seems  a  bit  of  a  chance, 
doesn't  it?  A  day  from  town  would  do  it,  if 
you  did  not  stop  with  us,  but  I  wish  you 

would." 

262 


PENNY    ROSES  263 

Here  this  surprising  letter  finished,  with  a 
plain  signature.  It  was  on  smart  paper,  and 
headed  "Wicken  Lodge."  Miss  Astley  read  it 
ever  so  many  times,  and  marvelled  at  it,  espe- 
cially the  first  part.  What  struck  her  most  was 
that  it  looked  so  plain,  and  was  so  smart, — 
"smart"  being  the  only  word  (except  sudden) 
that  Lina  could  find  for  Henry.  The  last  para- 
graph looked  like  business,  addresses  and  times 
being  mentioned,  so  she  could  manage  it  better; 
but  even  so,  "stopping"  at  Wicken  Lodge!  It 
gave  her  an  absolute  start,  concerning  her  ward- 
robe: before  she  dismissed  it  as  one  of  Mr. 
Wicken's  jokes. 

But  there  was  sense  in  the  suggestion  it  con- 
tained, and  it  suited  her.  She  knew  Mott  had 
fallen  out  with  his  family.  He  was  reticent 
about  home  affairs,  as  he  was  about  how  the  War 
had  affected  him:  still,  he  had  spoken  to  her  of 
that  little  sister,  more  than  once.  Could  she  help 
him  at  such  a  juncture,  she  wondered.  Could 
she  make  peace? 

Miss  Astley's  turn  for  making  and  keeping 
the  peace  was  a  considerable  one :  it  had  affected 
some  people's  opinion  of  her,  during  the  War. 
Even  in  Mr.  Forrest's  domain,  with  cook  and 


364  MADAM 

"girl"  she  had  pacified;  and  as  to  his  patients  at 
the  telephone,  translating  his  intemperate  in- 
structions into  sweet,  cool  business  language, 
with  just  a  little  feminine  craft  intermingled, — 
but  Mr.  Forrest,  of  course,  never  guessed  the 
evangelist  she  was. 

Now,  here  was  a  more  essential  domain  than 
Mr.  Forrest's,  nearer  to  her.  Would  Mott,  for 
instance,  be  offended  if  she  tried?  On  the 
August  Bank  Holiday,  for  instance?  It  did  not 
seem  to  occur  to  Mr.  Wicken  that  she  had  not 
many  days  to  spare  for  country  excursions :  but 
her  "doctor"  had  given  her  that  day,  promised 
her  it  beforehand,  with  unusual  kindness.  Mr. 
Forrest  had  even  told  her  to  go  to  the  country 
with  a  friend  if  she  could  find  one, — meaning 
feminine,  of  course,  since  no  other  could  occur  to 
his  mind. 

Of  course  Miss  Astley  had  hoped,  and 
planned,  to  spend  that  holiday  with  a  "friend"; 
he,  at  least,  would  have  it  granted  him,  after  the 
season's  slavery.  Only,  when  she  proposed  a 
country  jaunt  to  him,  just  as  a  first  step,  on  a  nice 
little  postcard,  she  had  a  line  from  him  in  return 
that  disturbed  her.  It  seemed,  he  could  not. 
There  was  some  kind  of  a  "turn-up,"  said  Mott, 


PENNY   ROSES  265 

at  Tinker's;  and  he  had  got  to  come  up  and  see 
the  old  boss  about  it, — that  was  Paish.  Miss 
Astley,  of  course,  knew  about  Paish  and  Pinker; 
Mott  had  ideas  about  them  both  which  were — a 
little  different  from  her  ideas  about  Mr.  Forrest: 
call  them  campaigning-ideas.  An  employer,  to 
Mott,  suggested  campaign,  at  once, — not  so  to 
Miss  Astley.  He  had  never  precisely  informed 
her  that  the  first  to  go  to  Hell  would  be  the  good 
servants  of  the  good  masters :  but  she  guessed  it 
in  his  equipment,  somehow.  Most  matters  about 
Mott's  inner  equipment  she  guessed. 

Well, — were  they  going  to  sack  him,  now,  after 
all  his  hard  work?  This  is  the  sort  of  query  that 
disturbs  the  roseate  maiden  dreams  of  Miss  Ast- 
leys:  and  keeps  them  awake,  wondering  and 
worrying,  all  night. 

She  read  Mott's  letter  again,  several  times. 
He  wrote  that  he  would  come  on  to  tea  with  her 
at  six,  if  he  could,  and  give  her  the  latest  from 
the  front;  but  he  could  not  promise.  Paish 
would  take  some  handling,  he  said  pleasantly, 
and  if  he  got  on  to  politics —  That  gave  Miss 
Astley  some  notion  of  what  the  "turn-up"  was, 
and  she  was  not  exactly  reassured,  though  she 
tried  to  be  so.  Anyhow  she  hated  Paish  for  spoil- 


266  MADAM 

ing  his  holiday:  that  was  legitimate;  employers 
who  interviewed  on  holiday  were  odious. 

Still,  it  was  a  letter.  Mott's  letters  were  him- 
self in  a  quite  remarkable  degree.  He  wrote 
easily,  for  a  boy  from  an  Elementary  School; 
Miss  Astley's  father,  who  had  also  had  some 
specimens  he  approved  from  him,  said  of  his  use 
of  words  that  he  must  have  practised.  This  one 
began  "Darling,"  and  finished,  "Yours,  Madam, 
D.  L.,"  like  all  the  others.  Very  like  him,  in- 
deed, both  conventional,  and  obstinate :  keeping 
his  ideas,  regardless  of  people's  protests;  Caro- 
line put  it  away  in  a  box. 

His  hour  of  six  gave  her  time,  it  gave  her  the 
day's  length.  She  decided,  thoughtfully  as  she 
decided  all  things,  to  go  to  Wandsley  and  not  to 
tell  him  (since  he  was  worried)  until  her  return. 
She  would  try  her  hand,  on  his  problematic  rela- 
tions. She  could  not  make  things  worse,  and  she 
might  improve  them:  what  better  fashion  of 
spending  one's  solitary  free  day? 

As  for  staying  at  the  Lodge However, 

in  thanking  Mr.  Wicken  for  his  kind  note  of  con- 
gratulation, she  mentioned  that  she  had  written 
to  Miss  Lane  and  hoped  to  see  her  on  the  Mon- 
day, if  it  proved,  for  the  hospital,  a  suitable  day. 


PENNY   ROSES  267 

Having  so  written,  she  supposed  to  herself 
every  proceeding  it  might  induce  in  Mr.  Wicken, 
except  the  one  it  did  induce.  He  met  the  train, 
and  took  her 

Anyone  in  Miss  Astley's  layer  of  society,  since 
she  was  an  engaged  girl,  and  alone  by  mischance, 
would  have  done  this;  Foote  and  Lu,  for  in- 
stance, had  been  very  sorry  for  her;  but  she  had 
not  supposed,  somehow,  that  the  heir  of  Wicken 
Lodge  would  see  it  like  that.  The  general  "sud- 
denness" of  his  character,  from  the  first,  had 
disturbed  her.  So,  of  course,  did  his  opening 
remark. 

"Isn't  this  a  rag?"  said  Henry,  happily.  "I 
say,  does  he  know?" 

Well,  then  Miss  Astley  explained  at  length 
just  why  he  did  not  know,  and  made  out  an  intel- 
ligible case,  for  herself  and  him,  under  head- 
lines. That  Henry  expected  of  her.  What  he 
did  not  expect  was,  that  she  was  much  less 
London-personified  than  he  had  ever  seen  her. 
That  aerial  city  would  hardly  have  recognised 
her  as  its  property,  Henry  feared.  Of  course  it 
was  summer  season,  and  holiday,  and  horribly 
hot  weather,  even  in  the  country.  It  must, 


268  MADAM 

Henry  suggested,  walking  beside  Miss  Astley  up 
the  platform,  be  infernal  in  town. 

"It  is,  rather,"  said  Miss  Astley,  lifting  a  little 
eyebrow  at  the  sun  outside.  She  put  a  neat  shoe 
on  the  fresh-watered  Wandsley  pavement,  which 
was  country  cobbles,  and  so  a  treat  in  itself. 
Then  she  shook  out  her  dark-blue  parasol,  cheap 
—a  bargain — 

What  a  very,  very  pretty  girl  she  was !  Henry 
had  never  noticed  it,  that  was  the  weird  part;  he 
had  thought  her  agreeable,  but  quite  ordinary,  in 
her  chrysalis  city-clothes.  Was  it  the  absence  of 
the  despatch-case,  and  the  presence,  instead,  of  a 
bunch  of  roses  (penny  ones)  for  Maudie?  Was 
it  that  her  fore-arms,  and  her  front  neck,  were 
bare  a  little  to-day,  like  all  the  other  girls,  the 
nine-out-of-ten  whom  she  did  not  resemble? 
Was  it  the  nice  colour  she  wore,  sashed  rather 
above  the  waist,  in  the  mad  way  that  girls  have, 
— as  though  anyone  did  not  know  that  their  waist 
was  there?  Her  hair  was  curly  a  little,  just  in 
the  right  places, — lucky  dog,  Mott !  Good  Lord, 
what  eyes  the  sweep  had!  He  had  seen  straight 
through  London's  misty  arts  and  artifices,  while 
Henry,  a  life-long  student  of  them,  had  been  did- 
dled and  deceived. 


PENNY   ROSES  269 

"What's  he  doing?"  said  Henry. 

"He  has  business,"  she  said.  "I  think  with 
Mr.  Paish." 

Henry  whistled.  "What's  Paish's  up  to?  I 
know  them!  I  wouldn't  trust  them  a  square 
inch,  Associates  or  no."  Here  he  noticed  a  line 
in  her  brow,  and  bethought  himself.  "But  he'll 
get  the  better  of  them,  sure,  Miss  Astley." 

"Will  he?" 

"Rather,  he's  bound  to.  He's  been  too  much 

for  them  once I  say,  it's  beastly  for  you 

not  to  have  him  down  here,  seems  wrong  some- 
how." He  mutely  indicated  Wandsley  High 
Street,  which  was  an  object  to  tourists.  When 
she  had  admired, — "Don't  often  get  a  day  out, 
do  you?"  he  said. 

"I  had  several  out  at  Easter,"  said  Miss  Astley. 

Easter!  What  time  of  the  year  did  she  think 
it  was?  Where  was  May  with  thirty  days,  and 

June  with  thirty-one  and It  will  be  seen 

that  the  world  was  rocking  a  little,  for  Henry; 
or  swimming,  perhaps,  with  the  August  mirage 
on  the  Wandsley  "objects," — it  was  so  hot!  He 
had  walked  out,  against  orders 

"It's  a  rotten  time  of  year,"  said  Henry 
thoughtfully.  "Nothing  but  grouse." 


270  MADAM 

"Oh,  I  think  the  country's  beautiful,"  said 
Lina  surprised. 

"Don't you  grouse?"  She  laughed  and  looked 
at  him.  Rot  about  Erith's  eyes, — hers  were  ten 
times  nicer!  "Hey  dear,  my  poor  Aunt," 
thought  Henry.  "I  shall  be  in  love  before  the 
end  of  this  day."  He  sighed,  and  sought  for 
matter  of  ingratiation. 

"Miss  Astley,  I'll  tell  you  something  against 
Dermot — " 

"Oh,  do!"  she  said  beaming.  "When  he  was 
young?" 

"No,  he  was  proper,  when  he  was  young: 
properish.  It's  only  grown-up  he's  been  lost  to 
grace, — now  listen!  He  doesn't  believe  in 
League  of  Nations.  You  do,  don't  you?" 

"Yes."  Pensive  and  earnest,  she  was :  she  had 
been  pondering  it, — reading  it  up, — 

"Thank  heaven,"  said  Henry.  "The  world  is 

saved Miss  Astley,  have  you  argued 

with  him?  Lots?  Now,  look  here;  you  must 
argue  about  our  League  of  Nations,  yours  and 
mine.  You  will,  won't  you?  I'll  tell  you  what 
to  say,  and  you  can  make  notes,  and  write  to  me 
if  you  get  in  difficulties, — won't  you?  Say  you 
will!" 


PENNY   ROSES  271 

"Oh,  but,  Mr.  Wicken— "  She  thought  he 
was  flirting.  Yes,  she  did,  Henry  was  certain  of 
it, — she  had  turned  pinkish. 

"Is  that  the  hospital  ?"  she  said  gravely :  snub- 
bing him.  Delightful  girl ! 

"That  is  the  hospital,"  said  Henry,  snubbed. 
"Now  you  go  up  those  steps,  and  ask  for  Maudie. 
By  the  way,  you  know  everything  about  the  long 
Lane  family, — don't  you?" 

"Everything."  She  laughed.  "Nothing  at 
all." 

"Don't  you  know  about  Chris?"  He  looked 
at  her,  face  to  face;  for  they  had  stopped  on  the 
cobbled  pavement. 

"N — not  yet.    I  think  he  will,  some  time." 

"But,  Miss  Astley,  you  do  know,  or  you 

wouldn't  talk  like  that Excuse  me," — 

turned  aside, — "awful  form :  I  don't  mean  to  ex- 
amine you.  I  see  you  do  know,  all  that  matters. 
Chris  is  all  that  matters,  between  him  and  his 
mother, — you  can  let  the  rest  for  ever  slide."  He 
stopped,  bowing  his  head:  she  liked  him.  She 
liked  that  serious  style  of  his,  recurrent  in  his 
careless  conversation.  She  thought  him  pretty 
pale,  too,  now  she  was  facing  him,  a  kind  of  man- 
ghost  in  the  fierce  sunshine.  "They  were  good 


272  MADAM 

lads,  all  of  them,"  said  Henry,  "but  Chris  was 
almost  great, — and  Mott  is  in  Chris's  image. 
Now,  if  I  said  that  to  his  mother,  Miss  Astley, 
she  would  think  it  very  wicked  indeed.  But 
Chris  was  god-like,  really;  he  took  his  ease  on 
earth, — no,  I  can't  tell  you  the  effect  it  had. 
Love  simply  came  to  him, — he  didn't  have  to 
turn  round  for  it,  to  get  his  fill, — it  bored  him 
rather.  Because  he  liked  fighting  for  the  good 
things  of  earth, — Mott's  the  same,  isn't  he?" 

She  looked  on  him  with  her  brows  a  little  bent. 
"But  I  thought  his  mother  didn't  love  him?  You 
say  love  came." 

"Chris? Miss  Astley,  between  our- 
selves, I  believe  the  old  lady  was  darned  proud. 
Women,  as  women,  simply  adore  a  man  of  that 
sort, — and  when  it  is  your  own  production, — and 
sets  the  country  alight  and  the  town  by  the  ears 
and  the  churches  burning  candles  and  the  com- 
mandments staggering  and  the  employers  hop- 
ping— as  Chris  did  at  twenty,  you  jolly  well 
think  in  your  heart  you  have  accomplished  a 
marvellous  thing.  Especially  after  five  others, 
— don't  you,  Miss  Astley?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,    I    do."      She   laughed.      "I    believe 


PENNY   ROSES  273 

Chris's  mother  adored  him,  upside-down:  just 
because  she  cursed  him  and  banned  him  the 
house.  I  believe  she  would  adore  Mott  now,  if  I 
could  once  get  in  and  tell  her  Titus.  If  you 
could  represent  Mott,  Miss  Astley,  as  preemi- 
nently piratical  and  perfectly  shuddersome,  and 
give  her  all  the  ladies'  scalps  he  has  collected — 
because  she  probably  hates  girls — with  six  sons 
she's  bound  to — " 

"But,  Mr.  Wicken,  what  a  look-out  for  mel 
If  she  hates  girls." 

"Are  you  going  to  see  her?"  Henry  gaped. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  thought  perhaps,  with 
her  daughter  in  hospital  she  would  be  rather 
helpless,  and  that  I  might — " 

"Just  so, — just  so.  You  thought  that,  of  your 

mother-in-law Tell  her  who  you  are, 

and  she'll  tear  you  limb  from  limb.  You  know 
that?" 

"But  of  course  I  shall  tell  her  who  I  am! 
What  would  be  the  good  of  my  coming,  other- 
wise?" 

"Oh,  Miss  Astley,  you  are  spunky!  Look 
here,  what'li  Forrest  say  to-morrow  if  there's 
only  half  of  you?  Only  two  arms  and  a  fountain 
pen? No,  really,  don't  do  it!  She  hates 


274  MADAM 

your  feller  rather  nastily  now.  She  was  always 
pretty  hard  on  him  for  some  reason, — couldn't 
stand  his  shadowing  Chris.  Perhaps  she  was 
jealous.  Perhaps  she  wanted  to  scruff  him  her- 
self for  the  Episcopacy — " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wicken!    Episcopacy!" 

"Well,  isn't  he  a  Churchman?" 

"He'd  tell  you  he  was." 

"Never!  Would  he?— Why? Don't 

look  so  elfish,  Miss  Astley.  You're  as  bad  as — 
Oxford  Street." 

Once  more  she  laughed  merrily.  Nobody  had 
so  often  laughed  at  Henry's  remarks.  Perhaps 
that  was  why  he  approved  of  her Any- 
how he  laughed  too. 

"Well,  now  you've  got  to  go  to  that  hospital : 
large  door,  right  turn.  Excuse  me,  won't  you? 
— I  hate  hospitals.  Will  you  come  out  to  lunch 
with  us  afterwards?" 

"Oh  no,  thank  you.  I'll— I'll  go  on.  The 
train's  so  early."  Her  colour  was  pink.  "It's 
very,  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Wicken." 

Henry,  snubbed  flat,  said  it  was  no  kindness  at 
all.  He  went  home,  looking  pallid  and  darkly 
depressed.  He  stopped  three  times,  walking 
home,  to  say  to  the  landscape  that  Forrest  was  in 


PENNY   ROSES  275 

the  right  of  it,  a  girl  like  that  was  a  walking 
fairy-tale,  and  he  would  never  tell  anybody  Ara- 
bian Nights  again.  Never, — never — 

Then  he  reached  home,  and  told  Miss  Astley 
to  the  lunch-table,  exquisitely:  tinted  to  admira- 
tion. He  chiefly  did  it  to  prove  to  himself  that 
he  was  not  in  love  with  her.  He  did  prove  it  to 
himself,  but  not  to  his  Aunt  Miss  Wicken,  who 
was  terrified.  A  typist! 


VIII 

MlSS  ASTLEY,  at  the  hospital,  was  blasted  by  the 
precisians  on  their  own  ground, — Maudie  could 
not  see  her.  It  was  not  that  she  would  not,  but 
that  she  could  not;  she  was  not  permitted  to  do 
so  by  the  unseen  disposer  of  her  fate  at  present, 
the  pure  and  perfect  woman  who  spoke  to  Miss 
Astley  on  the  second  floor. 

"I  had  warned  Miss  Lane, — had  an  appoint- 
ment." (She  thought  first  it  might  be  fuss.) 
"She  begged  me  to  come." 

The  pure  and  perfect  regretted.  "It  is  Miss 
Wicken's  visitor,  is  it  not?" 

Lina  calmly  said  she  was  Miss  Wicken's  vis- 
itor. She  would  have  been  anybody's  visitor,  to 
see  Maudie.  Then  she  gathered  that  Miss 
Wicken,  at  this  hospital,  was  patroness-in-chief. 
She  was  also,  in  a  special  way,  attached  to  the 
Lane  girl,  Maudie.  Consequently,  if  her  visitor 
was  rejected, — 

"I  see,"  said  Miss  Astley.  She  thought  it  over. 
"Will  you  give  her  these  flowers,  and  my  love? 
I  hope  to  marry  her  brother,  presently." 

276 


PENNY   ROSES  277 

"Indeed?"  For  an  instant,  Perfection  showed 
a  gleam  of  curiosity. 

"I  am  afraid  she  is  very  ill,"  said  Lina,  still 
thinking.  "Could  I  see  the  doctor." 

He  was  at  his  own  house. 

"Would  it  be  of  any  use  for  her  brother  to 
come.  He  could  get  away  if — " 

"Well,  it  is  her  mother's  strong  wish — apart 
from  the  doctor's, — that  she  should  see  nobody." 

"I  see But  if  she  wants  him  herself? 

Does  it  matter  what  her  mother  wants?" 

The  pure  and  perfect  cleared  her  throat. 
"Mr.  Lane  might  try,  later,  perhaps:  but  he 
must  warn  us.  It  is  a  heart-case.  Any  shock  is 
bad." 

"The  shock  of  love  hurts  nobody."  Her  grey 
eyes  were  full.  "You  are  a  Sister, — war,  too, 
aren't  you?  You  must  know  that." 

"I  have  seen  deaths  from  it,"  said  the  pure  and 
perfect,  frigidly.  To  be  sure,  she  had  been 
through  the  war;  its  order  was  on  her  blameless 
breast;  perhaps  for  that  reason,  pity  was  long 

past,  for  her "I  have  seen  deaths  from 

it,"  she  said. 

"Where  was  its  sting,  then?"  said  Caroline. 
She  turned  and  went,  in  her  pretty  flowered 


278  MADAM 

dress,  through  a  chequer-work  of  sunbeams  from 
large  plain  windows, — and  the  usual  antiseptic 
atmosphere  which,  in  Lu's  hospital,  she  knew  so 

well.  She  liked  it,  it  was  cleanly The 

perfect  woman  gazed  after  her. 

That  marry  Mott  Lane? 

Because  of  course  she  had  known  Mott  and 
Chris,  like  most  of  Wandsley:  and  George  and 
Frank  and  Dan  and  David,  and  knew  all  the  tale 
of  the  two  younger  in  the  mother's  version,  con- 
tinually circulating,  with  the  tireless  repetition 

of  real  drama  in  a  stagnant  community 

That  marry  Mott  Lane? 

But  she  wished  she  had  admitted  her,  all  the 
same,  to  Maudie;  she  was  the  right  sort,  and  so 
might  have  seen  the  girl.  Nevertheless  Perfec- 
tion was  fully  justified  in  setting  her  face  against 
her,  on  the  chance;  because  in  heart-cases  the 
right  sort  is  one,  and  the  wrong  ninety-nine,  in 
the  visiting  statistics. 

Meantime  Miss  Astley,  though  disheartened, 
started  for  the  doctor,  having  noted  the  time  by 
her  correct  little  watch.  She  would  get  facts  for 
him  anyhow:  before  she  caught  the  train  that 


PENNY   ROSES  279 

was  to  take  her  back  to  him  in  person,  at  six 
o'clock.  ^ 

She  started  for  the  doctor,  and  then,  seeing  the 
name  "Market  Street"  suddenly  diverted.  Why 
not  see  Maudie's  old  mother  first? 

Henry  would  have  said  that  Miss  Astley, 
otherwise  Fair  London,  was  getting  corrupted, 
in  Lancaster's  unconscionable  society.  She  had 
never  been  used  to  be  impulsive,  nor  to  take  what 
came,  like  this. 


IX 

PAISH'S,  that  composite  and  capacious  person- 
ality, had  learnt  from  Tinker's,  at  Epsom,  that 
Pinker  was  dissatisfied  with  young  Lane. 

Now,  Paish  was  dissatisfied  with  Pinker,  but 
he  could  not  say  so,  ever.  You  cannot,  even  if 
you  are  Paish,  "fire,"  nor  "sack"  nor  "shoot" 
your  son-in-law, — whatever  the  expression  you 
use  about  it  happens  to  be.  You  have  to  tolerate 
him.  The  only  thing  you  do,  if  you  are  Paish,  is 
to  go  to  your  daughter  for  the  facts,  in  the  event 
of  difficulties. 

This  Paish  did:  that  is  to  say,  he  let  Mrs. 
Pinker  talk  to  him,  and  listened  with  American 
courtesy,  which,  especially  in  the  case  of  women, 
is  polished.  Dolly  Pinker  said  that  Syd  (who 
was  Pinker)  wanting  a  reliable  chauffeur  for  the 
automobile,  particular  and  private,  which  con- 
tained her  own  person  and  clothes,  had  picked 
out  that  new  little  boy  as  smart-looking.  He  had 
refused.  Mrs.  Pinker,  urged  by  Syd,  had  tried 
herself;  and  had  been  refused  for  the  same  rea- 
son, which,  as  a  freeborn  American  citizen,  was 

280 


PENNY   ROSES  281 

a  pain  to  her.  For  why  should  a  nice  young  man 
refuse  "help"  (not  service)  to  a  freeborn  citizen 
who  was  also  a  lovely  woman?  Mrs.  Pinker 
could  not  see  it,  and  Syd  still  less.  Syd  had  suf- 
fered by  some  of  the  young  man's  remarks,  in  his 
interview,  separately;  Mrs.  Pinker  surmising  to 
her  father  that  the  fur  had  flown. 

Further  than  this, — mere  soap-sud  details, — 
he  was  said  to  read  rather  subversive  literature, 
while  he  waited  for  the  firm  about  the  world,  to 
keep  women  to  whom  he  was  not  married, 
(Paish,  when  Dolly  uttered  this,  looked  pained) 
and  to  have  "gotten,"  in  consequence,  into  the 
hands  of  the  Jews. 

"Who  told  you  that?"  said  Paish:  his  gimlet 
eye  on  the  last  detail ;  the  rest  could  wait. 

"Why,  one  of  the  other  hands  had  told  Syd." 

"Consult  one  hand  about  another?"  snapped 
Paish. 

"Why,  what  do  you  do,  Father?"  said  Dolly, 
artless.  She  added  that  Syd  was  so  nervous  of 
"trouble"  in  the  season;  but  if  he  wanted  it,  he 
had  best  go  on  the  way  he  was  going.  It  was  a 
sad  and  singular  thing,  but  every  one  of  the 
hands  she  had  happened  to  converse  with,  down 
at  the  works,  was  cross. 


282  MADAM 

"That's  bad,"  said  Paish,  solemn.  He  thought 
worlds  of  his  daughter  as  diplomat.  "Say,  does 
Syd  regard  that  as  Lane's  fault?" 

Syd  regarded  everything  as  Lane's  fault,  tem- 
porarily: just  a  way  he  had,  when  he  took  an 
aversion.  He  had  ever  such  good  places,  or 
plums,  for  that  little  boy,  added  Mrs.  Pinker,  if 
he  behaved. 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Pinker,  noting  Dolly's  crit- 
ical expression.  "What  does  Syd  pay  him?" 

She  gave  him  the  figure,  in  a  snap  like  his  own. 
Paish  remarked  that  he  had  started  at  that. 
Dolly  returned  that  he  had  started  at  more  than 
that,  given  the  fall  in  the  value  of  money  during 
the  interval.  She  would  be  sorry  to  see  Syd  do 
on  it, — even  unmarried,  put  in  Paish, — or  even 
half-married,  shot  back  Dolly. 

All  the  while,  during  this  snappy  conversation, 
Paish  was  inspecting  Dolly  and  her  clothes,  and 
guessing  (guessing  was  a  certainty,  with  Paish) 
that  Pinker  was  prospering.  If  he  had  the  sense 
to  make  his  wife  manager,  he  would  prosper  yet 
better;  but  that  was  an  affair  which  (greatly  to 
Paish's  sorrow)  was  Syd's. 

"Cann't  you  rope  him  for  us,  Father?"  coaxed 
Dolly.  "If  he  came  out  to  us,  privately,  Syd 


PENNY   ROSES  283 

would  feel  happier  at  the  works:  that's  about 
what  it  comes  to.  And  I'd  keep  him  tidy!" 

Paish,  as  a  courteous  parent,  did  not  doubt  it: 
but — "Chances  are,  I  cann't,"  he  mused.  "And 
here's  why, — he's  turned  down  a  better  private 
offer  already.  I  happen  to  know." 

"Is  he  all  there?"  wondered  Dolly,  after  an 
interval, — long,  for  a  Paish :  about  a  second  and 
a  half. 

"Well!"  said  Paish's,  with  their  customary 
finality.  Paish's  really  had  a  strong  idea  that  the 
party  in  question  was  all  there,  and  perhaps  a  lit- 
tle too  much  of  him  for  Pinker.  But  Paish's  was 
far  too  regardful  of  Mrs.  Pinker's  married  dig- 
nity to  tell  her  so :  even  if  it  were  necessary. 

But  Mott,  no  time  at  all  afterwards,  got  a 
trunk-call.  He  was  to  come  up  and  see  Paish's, 
such  a  time,  such  a  train,  on  the  holiday,  no 
chance  for  him.  Inwardly  cursing,  since  he 
guessed  a  row,  and  could  in  no  sense  afford  it,  he 
made  the  necessary  arrangements,  wrote  to  Lina, 
and,  on  the  same  morning  that  she  went  down  to 
Wandsley,  went  up  himself  to  town. 


X 

IT  was  "inf  ernal"  in  town,  as  Henry  said :  a  hot, 
veiled  August  morning :  the  kind  of  day  that,  in 
London,  is  tired  before  it  begins.  Paish's,  how- 
ever, did  not  appear  fatigued,  either  commer- 
cially or  personally.  Living,  no  doubt,  on  iced 
soda-water,  like  all  sensible  people,  they  looked 
very  brisk  and  cool, — and  ironed  to  admiration. 

"Morning,  Mr.  Lane,"  said  Paish  in  person, 
most  politely.  "You  not  giving  satisfaction,  on 
the  outskirts?"  He  eyed  the  young  man. 

"I  supposed  you  got  me  the  job,"  said  Mott, 
holding  his  head  up. 

Oddly  enough,  for  all  it  was  not  the  country,  it 
pleased  him  to  be  back  at  Paish's;  it  even  con- 
tented him  to  be  under  the  principal's  needle-like 
eye  again.  Here  was  life,  anyhow:  things  stir- 
ring along,  not  stagnant.  At  Epsom,  the  staff 
was  most  dull  and  behindhand,  Mott  feared: 
though  he  had  not  explored  them  in  all  their  de- 
partments exhaustively;  he  could  not  get  a  rise 
out  of  one  of  them,  anyhow,  on  political  affairs. 
Mott  was  rather  fed-up  with  Pinker's:  though 

284 


PENNY   ROSES  285 

he  had,  of  course,  in  the  present  state  of  his  pros- 
pects, to  keep  on. 

"You're  not  drinking,  anyway,"  reflected  Paish 
the  while.  "Smoking  overmuch,  maybe " 

Paish's  enigmatic  and  trap-jawed  expression 
was  unalterable  through  cloud  and  sunshine;  it 
was  the  same,  exactly,  in  the  last  rather  painful 
interview  they  had  had  together,  when  Mott  had 
been  "fired"  from  the  principal's  presence,  ap- 
parently to  all  eternity,  in  dark  disgrace. 

Having  preluded,  as  above,  in  the  line  of  gen- 
eral observation,  he  opened  at  once  on  the  main 
theme  of  his  daughter's  report.  He  had,  in  the 
past,  known  this  "hand"  of  his  pretty  well, 
picked  up  a  few  facts  of  him,  as  genuine  as  he 
could  get  them,  amid  the  legendary  colouring 
that  clung  to  Mott:  and,  needless  to  say,  forgot- 
ten nothing.  Paish  had  even,  during  the  Epsom 
interval,  kept  himself  up  to  date.  He  had 
handed  young  Lane,  under  the  rose,  to  Pinker's 
branch,  taking  note  by  the  way  of  the  temptations 
of  that  "locality"  to  a  lad  of  this  kind, — horse- 
mad,  as  everybody  informed  him;  and  had  him- 
self considered  it  a  toss-up  whether,  in  such 
surroundings,  he  would  sink  or  swim.  Paish  was 
ready,  being  a  born  administrator,  to  consider  it 


286  MADAM 

a  test  as  well:  no  harm  in  testing:  such  was  his 
attitude. 

Thus,  like  the  Colonel,  he  started — 

"You  been  betting?"  Shake  of  head.  "Jews 
on  to  you?" 

"I've  cleared  it." 

"Cleared  it  fairly?" 

"I'm  in  debt,"  growled  Mott,  "to  a  friend." 

"Friend  you  trust,  sir?"  (Paish  frequently 
did  this,  when  he  was  digging,  in  this  fashion;  it 
was  instinct,  rather  than  that  he  found  it  paid.) 

"Well,  I  shud  hope  so,"  said  Mott,  natural  at 
once.  "I've  known  him  always.  He's — he's 
standing  surety." 

"William  Shakespeare,"  said  Paish. 

He  had  always  noticed  that  this  boy  read, — 
never  mind  what:  it  could  in  no  case  be  against 
him.  Paish  himself  read,  in  his  odd  times,  and 
would  have  been  ashamed,  in  spite  of  his  advanc- 
ing age  and  humming  business,  to  be  really  out 
of  one  of  the  movements  of  the  day.  His  politics 
were  very  safe,  though :  extremes  being  unrelia- 
ble; to  adopt  extremes  was  like  building  on  a 
ricketty  platform,  sticking  out  beyond  the  strong 
hillside.  To  be  sure  the  young  fellows  were  al- 
ways doing  it 


PENNY   ROSES  287 

"Mrs.  Pinker,"  was  his  next  remark,  "thought 
you  would  feel  like  helping  her." 

"So  I  would,"  said  Mott,  "the-or-etically." 

He  did  not  smile,  since  Paish  did  not.  Paish's 
style  was  very  catching,  that  was  the  fact.  Mott 
could  never  help  picking  up  the  manner,  in  this 
society.  He  was  still  undecided  as  to  whether 
Wicken,  or  Paish,  was  the  best  permanent 
model ;  and  took  them  alternately,  until  he  had 
made  up  his  mind. 

"What  stuff  do  you  read?"  said  Paish. 
"Shakespeare,  is  it?" 

"I'll  lend  you  some,  if  you  like,"  said  Mott. 
He  turned  on  Paish's  in  a  manner  that  really 
alarmed  that  firm ;  and  for  an  instant  they  with- 
drew the  gimlet-eye. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Lane,"  was  his  next  proceed- 
ing. It  marked  a  stage  in  their  intercourse. 
Still,  Paish  had  another  reason,  for  he  thought 
the  boy  looked  "done"  remarkably.  It  might,  of 
course,  be  the  hot  morning:  or  it  might  be  other 
things,  such  as  the  midnight  oil;  he  had  rather 
laid  by,  on  inspection,  the  racing-stable  idea. 
That  Mott  was  frightened  of  dismissal  did  not 
occur  to  him  at  present;  though  it  was  not  long 


288  MADAM 

before  he  began  to  take  that  chance  into  account 
as  well. 

"Well  now,"  he  said,  "do  you  care  to  come  to 
town  again,  anyway?  More  chance  of  study 
here." 

"Less  time,"  said  Mott,  looking  tired. 

"Not  if  you  save,"  said  Paish.  "Money's  time, 
at  the  far  end.  I  daresay  you  know  that." 

The  boy's  brow  cleared  remarkably:  only 
half,  though.  He  regarded  the  "old  boss"  cau- 
tiously beneath  his  eyelids. 

"Then  you'd  have  me  wait  to  learn  anything 
till  the  far  end?"  he  enquired. 

"That's  what  we  do,"  said  Paish. 

"Not  good  enough,"  drawled  Mott.  "I'll 
stick  to  the  outskirts,  if  that's  all." 

"No,  you  won't,  my  lad,"  thought  Paish.  He 
opened  his  proposal  out  a  little,  by  stages:  he 
had  meant  to,  anyhow,  only  his  nature  was  to 
open  as  slowly  as  an  oyster,  which  Mott  knew. 
To  give  a  lad  a  chance  to  study,  for  his  job,  was 
a  commonplace,  his  side  of  the  water;  but  to 
give  him  a  chance  to  flourish  around  it,  and  pick 
up  explosives  to  play  with, — that  was  where 
matter  of  campaign  came  in.  The  "boss,"  of 


PENNY  ROSES  289 

course,  did  not  like  his  opinions:  he  made  no 
secret  of  it 

"Well  now,"  he  said  at  last  "There  it  is.  I'll 
listen,  if  you  care  to  make  remarks." 

Mott  did  not  care,  for  the  moment.  He  had 
realised  that  Paish's  wanted  him ;  and  it  is  some- 
thing to  be  wanted,  in  working-life;  only — well, 
he  would  sooner  have  had  time  to  reflect,  and 
weigh :  but  Paish's  never  gave  him  that,  by  any 
chance,  such  was  their  own  velocity. 

"It's  lodging's  the  trouble,  see?"  he  said  at 
last.  "I'd  fixed  my  family  outside,  for  the  sum- 


mer." 


"Regular  family?"  said  Paish. 

"I'll  leave  her  there,  if  necessary:  but — " 

"Other  folk's  errors,"  suggested  Paish. 

"No  error  in  question — "  But  he  blushed 
scarlet.  One  really  cannot,  in  life,  be  prepared 
for  everything.  Omniscience,  of  Paish's  sort, 
should  be  put  down.  He  sought  to  go  on,  also  to 
get  up,  for  they  were  seated:  but  he  failed,  and 
stammered.  He  was  "done"  by  Paish's, — over- 
played. 

To  add  to  everything,  a  bell  rang  fiercely,  al- 
most at  his  ear :  at  which  Mott  swore,  simply. 

"You  sit  awhile,"  advised  Paish,  arising,  "and 


290  MADAM 

not  violate  the  Commandments.  Your  nerves 
aren't  straight  yet,  that's  the  worst." 

"I'll  get  over  it,"  growled  Mott,  fighting  an 
inner  demon  that  he  knew  familiarly.  It  was 
small  consolation  that  hundreds  of  other  men  in 
England  knew  it  too. 

"There  you  are,"  said  Paish's,  giving  him  a 
cigarette,  and  becoming  an  angelic  visitant,  in- 
stantly. He  added,  just  before  he  left  the  room 
about  his  business, — "You're  short  of  food." 

"What?" 

But  Paish  was  gone.  Mott,  who  really  had 
risen,  that  time,  and  stood  staring  after  him, 
dropped  back  on  his  seat. 

Foodl 

Would  it  be  the  remotest  use,  when  Paish  re- 
turned, to  tell  him  he  was  a  liar?  That  he  fed 
himself  in  the  cleverest  possible  manner,  and 
Mona  and  Jock  still  more  brilliantly?  That  at 
the  worst,  in  these  times  of  profit-prices,  he  could 
always  steal  something,  or  call  on  a  toff  who  was 
not  a  viscount,  when  he  needed  a  square  meal? 
Or  even  accept  an  invite  to  a  servant's  hall,  or  a 
housekeeper's  room,  where  the  rations  were 
squarest  of  all? 


PENNY   ROSES  291 

There  were  heaps  of  ways,  still  left  to  Mott,  of 
managing,  without  Yankee  outsiders  (whose 
views  of  good  living  were  really  overdone, 
though  delightful)  chipping  in,  and  making  a 
noise  about  it.  Did  Paish  take  him  for  a  fool? 


XI 

PAISH  did  not.  He  proved  it  conclusively,  on 
his  return,  by  showing  that  his  suspicions  of  Lan- 
caster were  still  awake.  He  wanted  to  know  of 
Mr.  Lane — smoking  viciously  with  half-closed 
eyes,  as  a  man  does  who  really  needs  it, — why  he 
had  come  to  him  originally  under  an  assoomed 
name? 

Well,  so  did  "Curly"  Astley  want  to  know 
that,  and  so  did  Curly's  sister,  probably.  Paish 
was  in  very  good  company.  Miss  Fleming,  for 
instance,  and  the  London  police,  had  hardly  left 
the  point  alone,  on  a  certain  memorable  occasion. 
Eric  had  told  them,  in  court,  it  was  a  stage-name, 
and  perjured  himself, — because  of  course  Eric 
knew 

Mott,  looking  sulky  with  the  cigarette  (which, 
since  it  was  excellent,  he  would  have  preferred 
to  enjoy  in  peace)  considered  whether  he  could 
explain  Lancaster  in  any  fashion  conceivable  to 
such  as  Paish.  Paish  waited  for  him,  willingly 
now.  Every  minute  that  passed,  Paish  was  more 

292 


PENNY  ROSES  293 

certain  Syd  Pinker  was  a  fool,  and  that  what  he 
was  looking  on  was  wasted  material. 

"Well,  it  was  the  newspapers — "  he  began  at 
last.  The  fox  awoke. 

"They'd  been  knocking  our  name  about,  as  it 
happens.  Brought  it  into  the  limelight,  at  a  time 
when—" 

Paish  gimletted  him,  fixedly.  "When  we  were 
in  darkness,"  was  of  course  the  end  of  the  phrase. 
Not  that  the  words  occurred  to  Paish's:  they 
could  not,  since  his  mind  was  mechanical,  not 
rhythmical.  Yet  something  hovered,  over  the 
facts  he  knew;  and  he  was  at  least  interested, 
and  all  but  amused. 

"Is — that — so?"  was  his  way  of  proving  it. 
"Why  now,  that's  singular,  Mr.  Lane.  I'd  fig- 
ured out  several  ways  of  it,  possible,  but  I'd 
never  fixed  on  that.  No,  sir, — I'd  not  have 
thought  your  press  could  kill  anyone  alive, — " 

"Fools  read  it,"  said  Mott. 

"And  you  made  out,  that  way,  to  avoid  fools' 
remarks?  Run  under  other  colours,  for  a  time? 
Was  that  after  you  came  out  of  the  Army?" 

"Before  that,  among  friends,"  said  Mott. 

"You  mentioned  an  old  friend — " 

"He    fell    in, — I    asked    him saw    the 


294  MADAM 

point,"  added  Mott.  Interval,  while  Paish  bent 
his  intellect  on  Lancaster  and  his  story,  visibly. 
Then  he  said — 

"Your  family  name  is  a  common  one,  if  you 
will  excuse  my  saying  so." 

"Fairly.  I  daresay  I  was  a  fool  myself 

If  you  place  me,  you've  a  right  to  hear,  though. 
I  was — cuttin'  loose,  pretty  well,  all  round.  I 
had  to.  I'd — so  to  say — got  the  word." 

"Alluding  to  the  Almighty?"  said  Paish. 

"Not  far  off,"  said  Mott.  His  peculiar  eyes 
studied  the  "boss"  a  moment.  "Let  be,"  he  said, 
"I  was  a  fool,  and  that's  all  about  it."  He  added, 
pensive  with  the  cigarette, — "It  was  a  rotten 


name." 


"Did  you  try  this  story  on  the  British  police, 
now?"  said  Paish.  Shake  of  head.  "Didn't 

bother  them? Gee,"  thought  Paish,  "if 

you're  not  the  quaintest  kind  of  criminal  out!" 

But  he  enjoyed  it,  in  his  soul;  any  kind  of 
humour  or  comicality  an  Associate  like  Paish  is 
safe  for:  not  that  it  pays  exactly, — but  that  it 
lightens  the  burden  of  life. 

He  badly  needed,  of  course,  to  know  every- 
thing, (though  he  did  not  suppose  he  would  get 
it,  in  this  quarter)  because  it  is  not  worth  while 


PENNY   ROSES  295 

analysing,  in  life,  unless  Nature  offers  you  things 
to  analyse.  Paish's  fine  and  feverish  brain  had 
room  for  more,  much  more,  than  Autos  and 
Aeroplanes.  Men  were  the  thing  next  interest- 
ing to  Paish's,  and  boys  for  choice.  Mott's  youth 
was  very  strongly  in  his  favour,  here,  as  Henry 
divined : — the  fact  that  he  was  just-made,  shin- 
ing, barely  finished  in  parts.  When  Paish  saw 
such,  he  naturally  wanted  to  have  the  finishing 
and  polishing,  and  to  make  them  pay.  He  did 
not  mind — in  fact  he  approved — their  paying 
themselves  en  route. 

That  was  where  Syd  Pinker,  English-born, 
had  gone  so  badly  wrong:  really  wrong,  and 
Paish  was  pained  with  Pinker.  This  "hand's" 
strained  look,  and  the  fact,  patent  to  the  eye  re- 
garding, that  he  had  lost  weight,  fairly  shocked 
him.  That,  with  such  good  mechanism,  and 
power  behind,  was  all  wrong  and  ought  to  be 
remedied. 

Further,  it  ought  to  be  remedied  "right  now," 
— only  Paish  was  not  master  of  Pinker's  firm, 
that  was  the  worst  of  it! 

During  the  ten  minutes  of  his  absence  lately, 
Paish  had  thought  of  a  number  of  things:  in- 
cluding (since  he  was  a  scientist)  four  different 


296  MADAM 

kinds  of  feeding  and  a  rest-cure.  But  his  cure, 
in  any  form,  did  not  include  Lane's  accepting 
Tinker's  private  post:  for  Dolly  would  work 
him  to  death  in  a  twinkling,  and  pamper  him  too. 
Dolly  went  too  fast  even  for  her  father,  at  times : 
and  Paish's  pace,  for  all  his  years,  could  finish 
the  youngsters,  quite  easily. 

Women,  however,  did  come  into  Paish's  no- 
tions, because,  into  those  of  a  free-born  citizen 
of  the  New  World,  they  always  do :  Woman  and 
Man,  to  that  primitive  community,  appearing  as 
equal  entities,  both  human  (though  one  adora- 
ble) and  matched  to  make  a  perfect  whole. 
Paish  guessed  that  it  would  take  women  to  com- 
plete Mr.  Lane,  even  if  there  were  not  several 
competitors  at  the  task  already.  For  in  Old 
England  (unlike  more  primitive  countries)  he 
noticed  that  this  was  usually  the  case. 


XII 

MOTT,  back  from  Paish's,  was  sitting  thinking  in 
the  late  hot  twilight:  "Summer  Time,"  so  that 
the  light  hung  on  the  heavens  still,  though  not 
much  of  it  could  penetrate  into  his  small  attic 
room.  He  had  not  been  to  Lina,  for  reasons ;  he 
had  to  turn  things  over,  after  the  surprise  of  the 
day,  before  talking  to  her, — that  was  one  reason. 
Paish's,  for  all  his  quick  defence,  had  managed 
to  hustle  him,  almost  to  knock  him  off  his  bear- 
ings; Paish's  knew  a  thing  or  two,  in  life,  that 
he  did  not  know, — wiser  perhaps  to  admit  that 
at  once,  and  be  done. 

It  was  dinner  time,  even  by  the  most  upper- 
cut  standards ;  but  he  had,  as  yet,  made  no  tea. 
Earlier  on,  he  had  tried  to  work  at  the  pile  of 
things  that  he  had  (as  we  all  do)  prepared  for 
holiday,  but  that  also  fell  through,  slackly. 
There  was  no  light  in  the  rotten  room, — the  word 
was  applicable.  No  afterglow  even,  thunder 
was  looming;  it  was  an  altogether  over-power- 
ing day. 

It  was  "all  right," — he  guessed  so.  The  first 
297 


298  MADAM 

long  breaths  he  had  drawn,  an  hour  since,  in  this 
his  own  chair,  had  been  those  of  conscious  relief. 
His  funds  were  not  increased  for  the  moment; 
Paish,  that  sly  organiser,  meant  to  educate  him 
foremost,  to  finish  his  engineering  education  that 
war-jobbing  had  knocked  to  bits;  then,  even- 
tually, in  a  better  line  of  business,  to  launch  him 
and  make  him  pay.  Make  him  pay  Paish,  of 
course,  only  he  might  venture  himself  to  extract 

emolument Oh,  blast  Paish  and  all  these 

bosses !  Mott  would  so  much  have  loved  to  man- 
age alone!  Only  you  cannot,  in  a  great  com- 
munity; and  to  get  leisure  for  real  learning  he 
would  sacrifice  much, — even  liberty,  since  he 
would  have  to.  Paish  would  contribute  to  sup- 
port him  while  he  studied,  cannily  contribute, 
enough  and  not  too  much  in  a  ruinously  expen- 
sive era, — oh,  blast  Paish! 

Twenty-one,  that  meant  time  in  front:  the 
good  years  still  before  him :  not  like  half  the  men 
he  knew,  older  men,  with  the  best  of  life  lopped 
off  at  the  outset;  not  like  Wicken,  either,  his 
fashioning-hand  reft  from  him, — he  should  be 
thankful.  He  stretched,  and  clenched,  his  right 
hand  out  on  the  table,  while  he  dreamed. 

What  if  he  threw  all  up,  and  emigrated?    He 


PENNY   ROSES  299 

and  Chris  had  often  thought  of  it:  even  lately 
he  had,  while  Paish  was  talking,  in  his  well- 
measured,  oyster-like  way.  What  if  he  threw 

the  new  plans  in  Paish's  teeth,  and  cleared ? 

unworkable. 

Paish  had  shewn  him  plans,  at  length,  of  a 
place  he  eventually  might  manage,  when  he  had 
swept  up  the  skill.  They  were  very  good  plans, 
cut  the  ground  from  under  most  of  the  kind  he 
had  heard  of,  lately:  all  for  the  works  of  peace, 
and  beautifully  drafted.  They  came  from  the 
other  side  of  the  water,  where  Capital  threw  sops 
to  workmen,  lottery  prizes  of  such  richness  and 
variety,  that  the  work  was  good.  Mott's  scheme 

of  the  world  was  different,  a  trifle Paish 

had  suggested  his  fixing  in  New  York,  and  he 
had  refused  point-blank,  though  he  guessed  he 
would  have  to  go  there;  but  not  yet,  and  not  for 
good,  for  the  home-problems,  now  at  their  thick- 
est, absorbed  him.  Not  only  in  England,  even : 
in  France,  Italy,  in  the  broken  lands, — Rus- 
sia   At  the  dear  name  his  eyes  slipped  to 

his  papers.  If  a  man  could  but  put  a  hand  to 
these  halting  plough-shares,  these  problems  of 
staggering  Europe, — Paish,  doubtless,  knowing 


300  MADAM 

he  wanted  money  enough  to  marry  on,  thought 
him  a  fool. 

Lina, — she  had  been  ousted.  He  had  tried  to 
'phone  to  her,  but  the  Astleys  had  no  number. 
What  was  Lina  doing  with  no  number,  just 
when  he  wanted  her? — when  Lancaster  had 
kept  a  girl  wearing  and  waiting  for  him,  he  liked 
to  explain.  She  might,  of  course,  'phone  to  the 
office,  when  he  did  not  appear, — he  meant  to  go 
there  on  the  off-chance,  presently.  Her  voice 

would  be  something,  even  at  that  distance 

Oh,  devil  take  science,  and  Paish! 

He  thought  it  was  not  science  that  he  wanted, 
precisely:  not  for  a  sick  and  staggering  world. 
There  were  other  things,  there  was  better,  some- 
where  

The  Corning  Time  had  dawned,  a  little,  faint 
streak  on  his  dulness,  when  he  heard  a  foot  on  the 
staircase.  Never! Impossible,  quite  im- 
possible,— yet  he  knew  it  was.  That  step  he 
knew  quite  well,  and  had  always  known  it: 
guessed  it  in  the  golden  years,  with  Chris  on  the 
river-bank:  recognised  the  quick  little  heels  tap- 
ping down  Harley  Street,  some  time  before  she 
came  alongside,  though  his  back  was  turned. 


PENNY   ROSES  3©i 

"Mott!  Oh,  it  is!"  She  had  been  uncertain, 
to  the  last,  of  her  unparalleled  venture.  "Why 
didn't  you  come,  dear?"  She  was  pink. 

He  simply  gazed,  at  sea.  Was  he  deluded? 
The  light  was  sinking  (Summer  Time),  yetLina 
it  was,  herself,  in  a  new  dress.  He  had  to  believe 
she  had  really  come,  to  this  his  mousehole,  where 
he  had  so  often  thought  of  her.  It  was  so  unlike 
Lina  to  come,  unless — 

"Trouble?"    His  face  changed. 

"No,  no, — justice,"  she  said  proudly.  "Mott, 
are  you  vexed?  You're  not,  are  you?  I  just — 
ran  down,  you  know:  busy  to-morrow.  Had 
you  bad  news?" 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  in  his  turn,  rousing. 
"Pretty  good — I  tried  to  'phone.  He  kept  me, 
and  that, — you  were  worrying,  o'  course.  I  was 
writing,  see?"  He  indicated  the  table. 

She  saw :  a  sheet  of  paper.  He  had  not  writ- 
ten much.  Then  she  glanced  once  round  the 

room,  with  a  woman's  quick  eye.  Just  so 

She  gathered  her  forces. 

"Look  here,  Mott,"  she  said.  She  knelt  down 
at  his  side,  in  the  twilight,  since  there  was  noth- 
ing to  sit  on, — he  was  occupying  the  only  chair; 
and  she  held  out  her  two  hands,  curved  in  a  cup. 


302  MADAM 

Two  little  objects  were  in  them.  He  picked  up 
one,  a  little  case,  with  a  medal  on  a  ribbon  when 
open,  shut  and  dropped  it.  Silence  fell. 

"You'd  better  look  again,"  she  said,  in  a 
woman's  most  coaxing  utterance.  "The  other's 
yours." 

"I  can't,"  he  said  huskily.  "Oh,  great — no, 

not  that You  been  down  there?"  She 

nodded. 

"Of  course  I  guessed  the  things  were  there, — 
better  at  home, — better  in  the  old  place.  I  told 
Mother." 

"But  this  is  yours.  It  is,  and  she  knew  it,  it 
was  staring  at  her.  I  stole  it,"  said  Miss  Astley, 
"and  I  slapped  her." 

"What?" 

"I  did.  I  slapped  your  Mother.  She'll  never 
look  at  me  again." 

She  gasped.  Mott  gazed  at  her  a  minute,  to 
be  sure  he  was  not  dreaming.  Much  otherwise: 
she  was  more  real  and  lovely  than  usual.  Then 
he  picked  up  the  second  object,  the  lesser,  and 
went  over  with  it  to  the  waning  light :  throbbing 
out  of  the  summer  sky.  Summer  Time, — it  was 
after  nine. . 


PENNY   ROSES  303 

After  an  interval,  she  came  up  to  him,  and  he 
winced. 

"What  is  it? — you're  not  afraid  of  me?"  The 
instinct  of  mother  in  all  women  came  through. 
He  was  shuddering  from  head  to  foot,  as  he 
stood,  leaning  against  the  ragged,  faded  curtain. 

"Aren't  you  well,  Mott?" 

"Not  over.  It's  been  stuffy  these  last  days. 

All  right,  little  girl, — it's  right  you 

should  see,  since  you  fetched  it  me.  Come  in, 
come  on.  Look  there,  Lina." 

"I  saw  that,"  she  said:  her  head  under  his 
chin. 

What  he  held  was  a  small  booklet  of  common 
leather,  worn  and  scratched  with  constant,  care- 
less pocket-use.  He  held  it  open  with  a  finger  at 
the  first  page,  where  it  was  called  War-notes, — 
infinitely  valuable,  even  to  his  daylight  re- 
searches,— the  jottings  that  crude  searching  in- 
tellect, in  the  spirit  of  sardonic  comedy,  had 
made.  Under  that  heading  stood  the  words, 
hastily  written  and  blotted,  but  legible  perfectly: 
"For  Mouse,  in  case  of  H.  F." 

"What's  that?"  she  asked,  of  the  symbols. 

He  told  her.  "Hell  fire,"  it  seemed,  was 
Christopher's  term  for  the  life  beyond,  his  latter 


304  MADAM 

end.  It  was  a  quotation  from  his  mother,  who 
had  frequently  defined  it  for  him,  in  youth. 

"That  enough?"  asked  Mott,  eying  her. 
"Now  then,  there's  worse.  Look  here." 

Then  she  saw  that  what  his  finger  was  under- 
lining was — not  the  title,  nor  the  dedication,  but 
a  faint  brown  mark,  increasingly  brown  to  a 
wrinkled  edge.  She  was  puzzled. 

"Was  it  burnt?" 

"I  guess  so, — scorched."  Still  watching  her,  he 
licked  his  lips.  "H.  F.,"  he  said. 

"What  then?"  But  she  stammered,  for  horror 
snatched  her,  simply  from  his  appearance.  "Oh, 
was  it  on  him?" 

"On  him, — that's  right.  I  thought  I'd  go  mad, 
at  first.  I'd  better  tell  you,  only — you're  a  girl." 

"Go  on."  She  reached  after  the  book.  "You 
can't  possibly  read, — you'll  ruin  your  eyes,  dear, 
really.  Better  tell." 

He  told  enough,  when  she  had  him  again  in 
his  chair.  He  was  a  worse  teller  than  Henry,  but 
Lina  simply  cried,  on  his  shoulder.  He  was  ter- 
ribly touched  by  her  crying,  and  gathered  her  in. 

"Don't,  Lina, — don't,  darling.  I  shouldn't 
have  let  you  know,  it's  too  bad.  I  tried  not, — 
but  there's  something  about  you — " 


PENNY   ROSES  3«5 

There  was.  Just  having  her  now,  made  all  his 
day,  with  its  best  and  worst,  worth  while.  He 
kissed  her  half-bare  arms,  moist  a  little  with  the 
day's  heat:  and  herself:  and  she  lay  loving  it, 
since  she  loved  him.  She  gave  him  her  wet  gray 
eyes,  and  he  gave  her  his  strange  ones,  with  the 
wild  and  high  things  he  had  for  her,  some  time, 
— when  life  was  kinder — 

"That's  all  IVe  done, — make  you  go  through 
it  again,"  she  sobbed.  "And  slapping  her — " 

"Listen :  you've  done  me  the  best  turn  woman 
can  do.  I'd  never  have  got  it  out  of  her,  never. 
She'd  think  it  blaspheming  to  Church  and  State, 
half  he  says  here,  probably.  It's  a  wonder  she 
hasn't  burnt  it  before  this, — a  real  wonder.  It 
proves  something — "  He  was  clasping,  finger- 
ing the  little  book  left-handed,  high  up  on  his 
chest,  near  to  the  eyes  that  could  not  see.  "I 
daresay  it's  all  here,  all  I've  been  trying  to  say, 
since  he  was  through  it.  It's  what  I  was  want- 
ing, getting  at, — not  knowing  I  did." 

He  stopped,  done  up.  "And  it's  mine,"  he 
added  lamely. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  girl  at  his  side.  "Your 
own.  He  wrote  it,  thinking  of  you." 

She  knew  from  her  Bible,  of  course,  that  man 


306  MADAM 

and  man  can  love.  Superexquisite  people  may 
sniff  at  it, — but  there  is  the  Bible  for  them,  very 
common  reading:  full  of  penny  plain  facts. 

She  herself  was  guarding  the  little  war- 
honour,  wistfully;  for  to  bring  it,  to  offer  it  to 
him,  had  been  one  of  her  own  little  instincts  of 
poetry.  Only  he  passed  it  by. 

She  had  yet  to  learn  the  "Mouse,"  most  of  him. 
It  struck  her  wondering  that  the  book  should  be 
so  much  to  him,  the  medal  nothing.  Perhaps 
this  powerful  brother  of  his,  godlike-ungodly, 
had  despised  war-honours,  while  he  won  them, 
thought  Lina;  or  perhaps  there  was  a  way  of 
looking,  as  he  said 

Decidedly  Miss  Astley  was  being  corrupted 
fast,  warped  from  the  ways  of  her  parents ;  but 
it  was  not  Lancaster  who  was  doing  it,  as  they 
crouched  there  together,  clasped  in  the  twilight; 
the  wizard  was  love. 


XIII 

"TELL  me  how  you  got  it,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Well  now,  listen,"  said  Lina,  slipping  to  the 
floor,  but  keeping  his  hand.  "Mr.  Wicken  asked 
me  down,  and  you  couldn't  come.  Do  you  like 
him?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  daresay,"  said  Mott.    He  was  tired. 

"Daresay! So  of  course  I  had  to  dress 

nicely  for  it.  Do  you  like  my  dress?" 

"Yep," — he  did  not  look  at  her  again.  "Why 
had  you  to  ?"  He  was  jealous. 

"Oh  well,  he's  so  awfully  smart,  isn't  he?  Too 
grand  to  talk  anything  but  nonsense.  It  takes  a 
gentleman  to — " 

"Be  a  fool/  I've  fooled  a  bit."  Pause.  "He 
does  it  well,  though,"  granted  Mott.  "Did  you 
go  there?" 

"To  Wicken?  No,  dear.  He  asked  me,  only 
— well,  I  didn't.  I'd  like  to  have  seen  your 
house,  if  it's  still  there."  He  did  not  answer, 
tired.  She  went  on.  "Your  sister  couldn't  see 
me."  He  glanced  at  her  then.  "A  bad  day,  I 
suppose:  nothing  to  be  anxious  about,  imme- 

307 


3o8  MADAM 

diately.  I  saw  the  doctor,  after, — your  mother 
sent  me  across, — and  got  a  few  notes  for  you — " 

He  looked  at  her  shorthand  notes,  and  pock- 
eted them. 

"You  can't  read  them,  can  you?" 

"I  think  so, — I'll  write  her."  He  meant 
Maudie :  Mott  was  saving  time.  It  was  new  to 
Lina  that  he  could  read  shorthand, — there  he 
was  again,  hiding  from  her — on  her  own  ground, 
too, — 

"You  walked  on  to  Mother's,  did  you?" 

"Yes,  I  did,— well?"  She  looked  at  him. 
"Mr.  Wicken  seemed  to  think  it  a  bold  step.  He 
said  she'd  tear  me  to  bits." 

"Did  she?" 

"No :    she  was  in  bed.    She's — rather  old." 

"Oh,"  said  Mott.  He  said  nothing  further, 
fingering  his  little  book.  Miss  Astley  began  to 
wonder  if  he  wished  her  gone;  his  attitude 
looked  like  it,  a  little  drawn  sidelong.  She  set- 
tled, with  her  arms  about  her  knees. 

"The  front  room  hadn't  been  done  for  days, 
so  I  did  it." 

"Thanks." 

"You're  not  laughing  at  me,  are  you?  I  can't 
see  your  face."  She  leant  near,  but  he  was  still 


PENNY   ROSES  309 

rigid.  "You  won't  laugh  long.  She  had  all  the 
boys  in  there, — men,  I  mean.  They  looked 
young  enough." 

"Photos?    I  know  she  has.    It's  the  thing  to." 

"Mott,  she's  your  mother She  had  the 

Bible  too." 

"Did  she  read  you  some?  She  used  to,  while 
she  thrashed  me, — in  between." 

"Mott,  is  that  true?"  No  answer.  "She 
didn't  read  to  me, — I  read  to  her:  New  Testa- 
ment. Then  I  got  your  brothers  wrong,  when  I 
tried  to  guess  them.  I  thought  the  handsomest 
was  Chris, — Mr.  Wicken  had  been  talking.  But 
he  wasn't, — he  was  George." 

"Handsomest  photo,"  explained  Mott.  Pause : 
then  he  was  just  to  George —  "He  wasn't  bad- 
looking." 

"He  must  have  been  very  handsome,"  said 
Lina,  mildly.  "I  thought  you  a  most  wonderful 
family,  and  I  told  her  so." 

"So  did  the  Harmsworth  Press,"  said  Mott. 
Being  freed,  he  stretched  a  little.  "Say,  had  she 
the  cuttings?" 

"Of  course!  I  shouldn't  have  thought  any- 
thing of  her  if  she  hadn't  shewn  them." 

"Shewn  them  you?"    He  stared,  with  his  arms 


310  MADAM 

stretched  out:  then  he  dropped  them.  "Lina,  I 
say, — did  she  know  who  you  were?" 

"Not  then.  She  thought  I  was  a  friend  of 
Maudie's, — one  she  had  sent.  I'm  afraid  I  let 
her  think  it,"  said  Lina.  "Soon, — after  I  had 
been  to  the  doctor's  and  that, — she  began  to  have 
suspicions.  Then  she  asked  me  right  out,  when 
I  was  looking  at  the  medals  and  things.  So  I 
said  yes,  I  was." 

"Was  what?" 

"Yours." 

"Are  you?"    Interval — she  went  on. 

"So  she  turned  shaky  all  over, — ordered  me 
out,  and  so  on.  She  is  quite  old,  Mott  Then  I 
saw  that  book,  in  the  drawer  where  the  medals 
were.  And  I  looked  at  it, — and  she  clawed  it 
away, — and  I  clawed  it  back.  And  I  slapped 
her,— oh!"  (Tragedy.) 

"Hard?" 

"I — don't — know Mott,  you  oughtn't! 

You  are  not  to!" 

She  caught  at  his  wrist:  he  was  a  silent 
laugher,  always.  Lina  began  to  be  afraid  he  had 
deserved  all  he  got — with  the  Bible. 

"I  call  it  common, — clawing."    He  was  husky. 


PENNY    ROSES  311 

"Well,  it  was.  I've  felt  common  all  day:  Mr. 
Wicken,  he  simply  makes  you.  Doesn't  he?" 

"Maybe  he  does.  Mind  if  I  smoke?"  lighting 
a  match  for  the  purpose,  he  glanced  at  his  watch. 
"You'll  have  to  get  to  the  station,  darling ;  train's 
in  twenty  minutes." 

"The  train?" 

Silence.  She  had  never  really  thought  how 
she  would  get  back,  having  found  him.  One 
does  not,  on  holiday:  that  is  the  man's  work. 
More,  he  knew  it  was;  she  had  seen  the  lines  of 
his  face,  working  for  her,  as  he  always  would: 
would  to  the  death But  a  train ! 

She  gasped — "Mott,  I've  been  married  to  you 
for  ages." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  have.  I  was  feeling  so, 
lately.  I  think  we  were  married  when  I  met  you 
first, — pretty  well.  Mind  that  shop?" 

"I  mind  it." 

"I  was  mad,  fairly I  remembered  you 

afterwards." 

"I  see, — not  at  the  time." 

"Didn't  notice,  specially.  Miss  Fleming's 
fault,  damn  her! — chipping  in — " 

"I  thought  you  knew  that  girl,"  said  Lina, 
awed. 


312  MADAM 

Silence  again.  He  got  up,  and  went  to  the 
window.  Miss  Astley  immediately  laid  her 
head,  and  arms,  in  his  chair. 

"Can  you  see  the  time  better  there?"  she  asked, 
in  this  attitude.  "Mott,  what's  wrong  with  the 
League  of  Nations?" 

"Wrong  with  it?" 

"With  the  idea." 

"Oh,— nothing.    It's  all  right." 

"Why  can't  it  work,  then, — instantly?" 

"Well, — I'll  trouble  you  for  the  Nations — " 
he  began,  half-turned  to  her:  and  stopped. 
What  was  she  after? 

"Oh I'll  tell  that  to  Mr.  Wicken- 

shalll?" 

"Tell  him  what?  He  knows  all  I  know, — may 
play  he  doesn't,  but  he  does.  Good  style  to  play 

he  doesn't Say,  do  you  want  to  miss  the 

train,  because — " 

Silence.    Very  slowly  she  got  up. 

"I — I  think  I'm  mad  to-night, — as  mad  as  you 
were  when  I  first  met  you.  N-naughty.  It's  a 
naughty  day,  slapping  her,  and  teasing  you — " 
He  moved.  "I'm  going, — don't  come!  Don't 
come,  or  I'll — I  shall  catch  it  all  right.  It's  ex- 
traordinary how  the  light  goes,  isn't  it?  I 


PENNY   ROSES  313 

thought  Summer  Time  would  be — good  enough, 
somehow.     I'll  write  you  to-morrow  from  the 
surgery — " 
"Ring  me  up." 

"No,  I'll  write  you.    Outside  calls  are  so — " 
"Silly,"  was  the  word  he  seemed  to  hear.    Her 
footsteps  died  away,  losing  themselves  to  his  lis- 
tening ear,  as  they  had  come.    The  door  snicked 
sharp  below,  and  he  heard  them  tap  the  pave- 
ment, running  almost.    She  had  rua  away  fright- 
ened, not  offering  to  kiss  him,  nor  he  her, — how 
could  they?    And  she  had  long,  long  been  mar- 
ried to  him:    in  sympathy  of  every  fibre,  in 
thought,  in  that  lovely  unlikeness  of  two  na- 
tures that  must  make  one........     Silly,  silly, 

silly _._.; 


XIV 

HE  let  go,  when  she  had  gone ;  and  came  over  to 
the  chair  where  she  had  been  lying.  Nothing 
there:  she  did  not  leave  things  about,  scented 
things, — a  decent,  tidy  girl. 

And  she  had  slapped  his  mother !  His  mother! 
Astonishing 

Mott  sat  down  in  the  chair  of  blessing,  where 
Madam  had  lain,  to  write  to  Maudie.  But  he 
remained  for  half-an-hour  staring  at  the  sheet 
before  him,  instead  of  doing  so. 

"Darling,"  it  began 

After  that,  he  went  on  with  that  sheet,  fra- 
ternally, to  Maudie.  Well,  why  shouldn't  the 
child  have  it,  anyway?  Mott  did  not  waste  note- 
paper,  in  needy  times:  and  he  had  written  her 
"darling"  before. 

When  that  was  accomplished,  he  remembered 
that  he  had  eaten  nothing,  for  hours :  and  insti- 
tuted a  search  for  food.  Not  so  easy.  He  un- 
earthed a  bit  of  bread  and  a  bit  of  cheese,  both 
affected  by  the  climate,  one  to  drought  and  one 
to  oiliness.  These  he  consumed,  disappointing 

314 


PENNY   ROSES  315 

the  mice,  his  namesakes;  but  Mott  was  not  a 
mouse, — larger, — and  there  was  still  within  him 
an  aching  void. 

He  looked  out  of  his  high  window,  wistfully. 
Fool  he  was,  and  the  shops  shut:  even  the  beer- 
houses,— never  was  there  such  a  place  for  beer- 
houses ;  stars  of  them  filled  the  earth  as  many  as 
colder  stars  the  sky. 

Well,  how  could  he  face  the  battle  with  his  lit- 
tle book,  his  dear  possession,  and  the  towering 
emotions  or  hopes  it  might  induce  or  awaken, 
with  a  chasm  within  him?  Was  that  not  exactly 
the  problem  of  staggering  Europe,  War,  Peace, 
Coming  Time,  League  of  Nations, — Mott,  re- 
membering Lina,  smiled  as  he  stood.  What  the 
deuce  had  Lina  been  at  with  her  League  of  Na- 
tions? To  be  sure  he  might  have  guessed  she 
would  be  on  to  that. 

Then  his  new  landlady,  the  kind  Mona  did  not 
care  for,  tapped  at  his  door  and  brought  him  a 
cup-o'-tea,  because  he  might  be  glad  of  it. 
Landladies  spoiled  Mott.  They  also  combine 
with  cup-o'-teas,  even  at  the  least  common  times, 
as  excellently  as  policemen.  It  was  a  large  cup, 
and  fell  well  into  the  aching  cavity,  and  there 
was  a  biscuit  in  the  saucer.  It  was  sopped  with 


316  MADAM 

chilly  tea, — still,  Mott  ate  it:  he  would  have 
eaten  twenty  such. 

Of  course,  the  landlady  had  really  come  to  see 
if  the  lady  was  still  there:  the  lady  who  had 
come  so  late,  so  prettily  dressed,  bringing  a  mes- 
sage concerning  his  sister,  in  hospital.  One  must 
keep  one's  eye  on  these  occurrences  and  stories. 
Finding  her  attic  lodger  alone,  she  retired  again, 
with  a  letter  he  had  requested  her  to  post,  rather 
shyly.  It  was  directed  to  his  sister,  in  hospital, 
— penny-plain  evidence  of  the  best,  since  there 
was  a  stamp  on  it. 

He  was  a  nice  young — gentleman. 


XV 

"YOU  are  late,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Astley,  shut- 
ting and  bolting  the  Clapham  front  door  behind 
his  elder  daughter:  it  was  some  little  time  since 
Lu  and  Fred  had  come  in. 

"Yes, — I'm  sorry,  Father.  Have  you  been 
waiting  up?"  She  followed  him  into  the  front- 
room,  where  he  had  been  smoking,  (for  he  also 
was  on  holiday)  and  watched  him  while  he  lit 
the  candles.  He  was  so  kind,  so  regular,  so  rea- 
sonable, always.  She  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  she  would  ever  have  to  leave  him,  with  her 
mother,  alone:  unaided,  with  her  mother;  Lina 
often  thought  about  that. 

"I  ran  down  to  Epsom,"  she  confessed,  lip  bit- 
ten. Then,  when  he  did  not  comment,  for  he 
trusted  her — "Had  to  see  him,  about  something. 
I  went  to  his  room." 

Mr.  Astley  turned  and  looked  at  her,  over  his 
spectacles,  and  above  the  candles.  "Well,  my 
dear?" 

"Rather  awful,  wasn't  it?  But  I  had  to  see  him, 
317 


3i8  MADAM 

— I  had  to ;  I  hadn't  all  day.  He  has  only  one 
room,  Father." 

"I  shouldn't  have  supposed,  with  the  calls  on 
him,  he  had  more,"  said  Mr.  Astley,  surprising 
her. 

"But  did  you  know  he  was  like  that, — so  poor? 
He — he  dresses  so  nicely." 

"I  knew  he  was  proud,"  said  Mr.  Astley.  "It's 
about  the  same  thing.  He  has,  as  a  fact,  been 
very  frank  with  me, — for  your  sake,  no  doubt. 

But  he  is  young,  isn't  he?"  Again  he 

glanced,  cautious.  She  was  standing  by  the  fire- 
place, her  back  turned. 

"Not  inexperienced.  So  clever,  Father, — 
brave, — good  to  me.  I  love  him  so." 

"Yes,  my  dear."  Mr.  Astley  was  troubled.  "I 
wish  I  could  help  you.  Before  the  war,  I  would 
have  done  my  best,  to  settle  you  as  well  as  Lucy. 
Make  it  nice  for  both  of  you :  now  poor  Fred — " 

"I  know, — he  can't  earn  much.  Poor  Fred! 
I'm  silly,  Father." 

"To  them  that  have  health,"  said  Mr.  Astley, 
and  ceased.  "It's  often  the  strong  who  suffer,  I 
think,  in  this  life.  You  for  instance,  and  Lucy, 
— you  are  the  stronger.  We  have  depended  on 
you, — even  on  your  earnings — " 


PENNY   ROSES  319 

"I  won't  stop  earning,  Father  dear."  She  was 
up  to  his  side.  "I  never  meant  to,  married  or  no. 
Times  are  so  awfully  hard,  aren't  they?  We 
can't  afford  it,  not  even  women — " 

"Work  for  everybody,"  mused  Mr.  Astlcy. 
"You  are  right."  That  her  mother  was  some- 
where, haunting  this  conversation,  Lina  guessed; 
of  father  and  mother,  it  was  the  strong  who  had 
always  suffered,  certainly.  That  she  should  ever, 
ever  hang  on  Mott  like  that — . 

"But  there  is  one  thing,  all  the  same,  that  we 
shall  not  bear,"  said  Mr.  Astley,  "neither  I  nor 
Dermot."  She  looked  at  him  surprised.  "And 
that  is,  that  when  you  are  married,  newly- 
married,  you  should  work.  In  the  house,  yes : 
but  not  outside  it.  He  is  going  to  put  his  foot 
down, — when  that  time  comes,  my  child,  it  shall 
be  your  rest." 

"Dear  Father."  His  arms  were  round  her 
now,  as  her  lover's  had  been:  only  they  were 
standing,  over  the  lighted  candles.  "But  how 
can  anybody  rest?"  she  said,  dreamily. 

"He  will  not, — you  will  for  him.  Can  you  see 
it  that  way?" 

"Oh,  yes, — oh,  yes :  of  course Did  he 


320  MADAM 

say  that?  Father,  have  you  talked  to  him?  Are 
you  friends?" 

She  was  shy  and  eager.  Astleys,  of  course,  a 
model  family,  respected  their  parents,  but  did 
not  confide  in  them  often,  though  in  this  case 
there  was  mutual  trust. 

"Well,  I  hope  so.  So  far  as  age  and  youth  can 
be  that."  He  smiled.  "But  it  was  wild  to  go  to 
his  rooms,  my  dear:  your  mother  could  not 
approve  it.  It  was  even  a  little  unkind, — 
did  it  strike  you? — when  he  is  trying  to  drive 
straight — " 

"Drive!  Oh,  you  do  know  him Fa- 
ther, listen:  I  did  have  something  to  tell  him, 
urgent.  I — sort  of — spun  it  out.  I  was 
naughty.  I  wanted  to  p-prove  that  he  really  did, 
because  he's  careful,  you  know."  Mr.  Astley 
laughed,  and  she  grasped  him  hard. 

"Father,  didn't  I  deserve  anything?  It  was 

the  devil,  I'm  sure You  see,  he  thinks 

he's  not  quite  my  class — oh,  of  course  he  doesn't 
think  he  thinks  it,  but  he  does!  He  calls  me — " 
she  bit  her  lip, — "  'Madam,' — will  do  it! —  So 
I  have  to  give  it  him,  haven't  I?  You  must." 

Mr.  Astley  laughed  again, — was  this  Lina? 
"Holiday,"  he  suggested.  She  had  succumbed, 


PENNY  ROSES  321 

he  meant,  to  a  holiday-mood.  After  all,  she  had 
so  few  of  them,  and  twenty-one  years  is  not  so 
very  old,  even  for  one  of  the  props  of  a  model 
family.  She  looked  wonderfully  sweet,  too,  as 
she  stood,  in  the  candle-light,  in  a  flowery  dress, 
much  as  her  mother  in  rose-time  had  once  been, 
outwardly 

Miss  Astley  fled  light- foot  upstairs  to  her  attic- 
bedroom,  forgiven,  kissed,  and  straight  with 
everybody.  With  him,  too,  probably, — it  was 
fun  to  lease  him.  Delicious 

Presently  she  said  her  prayers. 


XVI 

IT  was  hunting-time  again  in  the  English  coun- 
try; better  than  grouse;  Henry  did  not  grouse, 
particularly.  Captain  and  Mrs.  Glover,  she 
lovelier  and  he  fatter  than  ever,  came  down  to 
Wicken  Lodge,  where  the  Colonel  had  hunting- 
matter  for  them,  for  the  first  time  since  the  new 
arrangement:  Erith's  new  arrangement,  that  is, 
of  Henry's  life.  Miss  Wicken  feared  it  might 
be  a  delicate  occasion,  and  prepared  to  be  ultra- 
delicate  to  match  it, — fruitlessly.  She  lost  her 
labour  of  love. 

"How  are  you,  Erith?"  said  Henry,  on  the 
Wandsley  platform. 

She  knew,  then  and  there,  that  she  had  lost 
him, — why,  she  could  not  think:  but  it  did  not 
matter.  Henry  was  always  queer,  and  her  power 
over  Nichol  was  pronounced,  reinforced, — he 
would  slave  for  her.  So  she  was  sweet  to  Henry, 
all  along  the  Wandsley  platform,  and  out  to  the 
carriage  in  the  cobbled  roadway:  not  her  very 
sweetest,  but  sweet. 

She  had  super-exquisite  clothes  on,  and  she 
322 


PENNY   ROSES  323 

enjoyed  being  at  Wicken  again :  liked  the  mild 
sentiment  of  it,  and  quite  reconquered  the  Col- 
onel. Nichol  thought  Henry  looking  terribly 
ill,  but  Erith  did  not  notice  it;  he  was  peaky  at 
all  times,  and  he  poured  forth  nonsense  as  he  had 
always  done,  entertaining  them.  The  trio  went 
round  the  grounds  exhaustively,  inspected  in  the 
stable  the  hunters  they  were  to  ride  next  morn- 
ing, by  the  Colonel's  direction:  and  called  in 
force  upon  Titus. 

"Hullo,  Miss!"  said  Titus  to  Erith,  with  a 
wink  to  Henry,  utterly  disrespectful.  Erith  was 
a  picture  with  him,  petting  and  canoodling, 
showing  how  all  horses  took  to  her,  and  remem- 
bered her,  Titus  above  all.  But  she  did  not  see 
the  wink:  it  was  on  the  off-side,  Henry's,  since 
Titus  was  gentlemanly. 

"How's  that  young  what's-his-name?"  said 
Captain  Glover,  looking  over  Titus  in  detail. 
"Lane,  wasn't  it?" 

"Hullo!"  said  Titus,  in  a  new  tone,  and 
pricked  his  ears. 

"Hh-rrumph!"  said  Titus.  "Clear  out,  girl, 
I  want  to  listen  to  this."  He  took  a  step  or  two, 
much  as  a  clever  dancer  shapes  a  figure,  from  a 
scene  half- remembered.. 


324  MADAM 

"Look  out,  for  Lord's  sake,  darling!"  said 
Nichol.  "I  say,  Wicken,  the  brute's  not  broken 
yet—" 

"Nichol,"  said  Henry.  "Do  you  really  want 
to  know?" 

Nichol  wished  earnestly,  before  long,  that  he 
had  not  asked:  it  had  been  careless  of  him.  Of 
course  it  was  incredible  that  so  many  things 
could  really  happen  to  one  fellow,  as  Henry 
hinted;  still,  Nichol  might  have  recollected  his 
insanity  on  the  subject,  if  there  had  not  been  a 
house-find  and  a  honeymoon  between.  But  these 
things, — second  above  all, — put  you  out  as  much 
as  a  World-war;  more,  when  your  partner  is  an 
angel  such  as  Erith.  Her  sympathy  with  him, 
during  their  idyll  abroad,  could  not  be  equalled : 
her  clothes  were  a  dream:  she  was  making  him 
very  happy  indeed,  with  the  closest  attention: 
and  that  (as  Henry  told  Titus)  was  the  great 
thing. 

"Right-o,"  said  Titus,  nosing  him  kindly. 
"Now  go  on  about  the  other  man,  would  you? 
Tell  them  lots,  and  I'll  help  with  the  high 
lights—" 


PENNY   ROSES  325 

Henry  told  them  Lancaster  was  in  love. 

When  they  did  not  seem  excited  enough,  he 
added  that  he  was  attached  to  a  simply  topping 
girl,  a  surgeon's  typist:  name,  Forrest,  in  Har- 
ley  Street — 

"Oh,"  said  Nichol,  remembering,  very  vague- 
ly. Presently  he  said,  in  a  pause  of  Henry — 
"Has  she  money?  He'd  none,  if  I  remember 
right." 

"What  a  wonderful  brain  you  have,  Nichol," 
said  Henry.  "That  is,  and  was,  and  will  be  the 
difficulty.  Money,  poor  devils  I  Erith,  isn't  it 
absurd?" 

"Can't  he  earn  some?"  said  Erith. 

"Mean  the  lad  can't  get  married?"  said 
Nichol. 

Henry's  eyes  met  his :  he  had,  for  Lancaster, 
Nichol's  full  sympathy:  none,  for  Miss  Astley, 
from  Erith.  None, — none. 

Very  well:  he  decided,  then  and  there,  to 
leave  the  Glovers  to  their  calling  and  hunting 
(only  this  time  he  hunted  with  them)  and  to  keep 
the  tale  of  Miss  Astley,  in  its  final  edition,  for 
Nichol's  private  ear.  It  was  a  little  hard  to  dis- 
entwine  Nichol  from  Erith,  nowadays:  still,  he 


326  MADAM 

abode  the  opportunity.  How  nice  it  would  be, 
he  thought, — wandering  alone,  while  they  wan- 
dered together, — if  he  could  entrap  that  surgeon, 
with  Nichol,  to  a  little  lunch-party:  and  so  kill 
two  birds  with  one  recital. 

Because  he  simply  longed  to  kill  Mr.  Forrest 
with  Miss  Astley,  last  edition.  The  poor  old 
surgeon  really  thought  he  knew  her, — that  was 
the  creamy  part.  She  was  probably  sitting,  every 
day,  with  her  despatch-case,  under  his  eye,  just 
as  usual ;  even  though  Lancaster  had  kissed  her, 
and  she  had — 

No:  it  must  be  laid  up  in  lavender  for  For- 
rest; for  Miss  Astley,  final  edition,  was  simply 
the  sequel  of  all  the  other  tales.  Tell  one,  and 
you  found  yourself  telling  the  others,  inevitably, 
wherever  you  were :  it  all  followed  on. 

"Where  do  you  lunch  on  Wednesdays?"  said 
Henry  over  a  public  wire  to  Mr.  Forrest  "Be- 
cause Glover  and  I  are  coming  to  lunch  with 
you." 

"I  lunch  at  home,"  responded  Mr.  Forrest, 
after  an  interval.  "She  says  the  house  is  all  right, 
though:  you  can  come  along." 

"She?"    pondered   Henry.     Could  there  be 


PENNY   ROSES  327 

other  than  one  she?  Did  Miss  Astley  keep  Mr. 
Forrest's  cook  for  him,  as  well  as  his  accounts 
and  his  clientele?  What  a  woman!  How  ever, 
ever,  would  the  poor  brute  be  able  to  spare  her, 
when  the  crash  came? 

"Now,  Nichol,"  said  Henry,  "you  are  going  to 
see  the  most  wonderful  girl  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  said  Nichol.  All  the  same  he 
could  not  quite  fathom  Henry,  about  this  other 
girl:  he  had  been  used  to  think  of  Erith,  su- 
premely,— it  was  queer. 

"She  may  or  may  not  be  married  to  Forrest," 
said  Henry.  "I  hope  she  is  not,  for  Lane's  sake; 
but  she  keeps  his  cook  for  him." 

"Oh,  come!"  said  Nichol,  patient.  "Look 
here,  is  it  the  same  I  talked  to  for  you  that — " 

"It's  the  same,"  said  Henry. 

"She  won't  come  to  luncheon,  if  she's  typist 
and  so  on,"  said  Nichol,  presently. 

"No,"  said  Henry,  depressed.  "Unless  she's 
Mrs.  Forrest — "  It  seemed  a  bad  look-out  for 
somebody,  either  way.  He  had  rather  counted 
on  seeing  Miss  Astley,  this  visit,  like  all  the  other 
visits :  perhaps  he  was  unwise  to  count. 

He  was,  as  it  proved.  There  was  no  sign  of 
Miss  Astley,  in  the  room  that  was  not  the  pa- 


32S  MADAM 

tients'   parlour,   when   Henry   peered   in.     Or 

rather, — there  was  a  sign — the  despatch-case,  on 

the  table,  with  C.  E.  A. — 

"Do  shut  up,"  said  Nichol;    for  the  latest 
"She  isn't  Mrs.  Forrest,"  said  Henry,  happily. 

"girl,"  who  was  rubicund,  was  looking  round. 

Dr.  Ashwin  was  with  Mr.  Forrest. 

"Hul-/o/"  said  Henry,  delighted;  and  forgot 
all  about  Lancaster,  and  his  tales  male  and  fe- 
male, and  everybody  else,  including  present  com- 
pany, in  order  to  converse  with  him,  undoctori- 
ally. 

Consequently,  Mr.  Forrest  and  Nichol  con- 
versed alone,  after  luncheon;  for  nothing  would 
detach  Henry  from  his  post,  or  nest,  beside  Dr. 
Ashwin,  on  the  fireside  seat.  Such  was  the  stern 
division  of  the  party,  by  Henry's  single  choice, 
that  the  war-Captain  and  war-surgeon  grew 
quite  intimate :  they  had,  as  it  were,  met  one  an- 
other by  dozens,  before. 

Well,  how  should  Nichol,  in  these  comforta- 
ble circumstances,  know  what  Forrest  knew,  or 
what  he  did  not  know,  of  Henry's  nonsense?  He 
had  that  slow  retentive  brain  that  stores  facts, — 
that  never  lets  go  a  fact  (of  sense)  that  you  put 


PENNY   ROSES  329 

into  it.  Also  Henry,  though  not  intending  to  tell 
him  Miss  Astley,  had  told  him  plenty  of  things. 
Further,  Nichol  happened  to  know  of  a  nice 
young  typist,  really  a  charming  girl,  a  pensioner 
of  his  mother's,  looking  for  a  decent  post,  like 
Forrest's,  when  it  should  happen  to  fall  vacant. 
What  this  state  of  mind  and  conscience,  in 
Nichol,  led  to  in  tete-a-tete,  may  be  conceived. 


XVII 

"MARRIED?  Who  said  she  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried?" said  Mr.  Forrest,  frightfully  loud. 
Henry,  rooted  and  nested  in  undoctorial  inter- 
course, simply  had  to  hear. 

"Oh,  Nichol,  you  ass!"  he  groaned.    "Excuse 

me,  Ashwin,  this  is  important She  really 

has  been  proposed  to,  surgeon.  I  happen  to 
know." 

"Proposed  to?  What's  that?  Some  people 
spend  their  lives  in  proposing, — specially  late- 
ly." (Mr.  Forrest  spoke  of  it  as  though  a  symp- 
tom of  some  fell  disease.)  "I  thought  she  looked 
queer,  when  I  told  her  to  go  out  with  a  friend  on 
Bank  Holiday,"  said  Mr.  Forrest,  fussing  dread- 
fully. "Now  I  suppose  he's  done  it — " 

"Yes,  he  did." 

"I  suppose  she  took  a  languisher,  eh? — some 
seedy  convalescent,  not  in  his  proper  senses — " 

"She  did,"  said  Henry,  excited.  "What  an 
imagination  you  have,  Forrest, — but  you're  on  it 
exactly.  She  took  me." 

"What?" 

330 


PENNY   ROSES  33i 

"A  seedy  convalescent,"  triumphed  Henry, 

"not  in  his  proper  senses Oh,  Forrest,  let 

me  show  you  him,  shall  I?" 

Mr.  Forrest  walked  to  the  end  of  the  room 
and  back,  stopping  by  Henry's  side. 

"Do  you  mean  you  are  going  to  marry  her, 
Wicken?"  he  said  quietly.  "Because — " 

"I  wish  I  could !" 

"Good  Lord,  Wicken !"  This  was  Nichol,  Dr. 
Ashwin  was  watching  them  all,  blinking,  in  a 
corner  of  the  fireside  seat.  He  seemed  attentive. 
He  had  not,  of  course,  the  smallest  idea  what 
woman  they  were  talking  of;  but  that  his  friend 
Forrest  should  be  talking  about  a  woman  at  all 
showed  advance  in  life, — a  sensible  gain. 

"You're  a  waster,"  said  Mr.  Forrest,  "and  a 
weakling.  Do  you  suppose — " 

"A  girl  would  want  to  marry  me?  No, — that's 
the  worst  of  it.  She  doesn't." 

"I — er — beg  your  pardon,  Wicken." 

"I — er — beg  yours,"  said  Henry.  "Fact  is,  we 
haven't  either  of  us  a  chance — " 

"Who  is  this  maiden?"  said  Dr.  Ashwin,  in  a 
soft  tone.  Nobody  heard  him. 

"Marriage  is  for  fools,"  said  Mr.  Forrest 
thoughtfully. 


332  MADAM 

"Oh,  Forrest!"  said  Henry,  outraged,  "only 
when  you  can  get  something  else  for  nothing,  as 
you  do." 

"Libel,"  said  Nichol,  now  shaking  quietly. 
Nichol  had  wanted  to  floor  Mr.  Forrest,  when 
he  called  Henry  names :  now  he  saw  they  were 
fairly  matched.  He  had  always  thought  Henry 
one  of  the  funniest  people  in  the  world:  with 
this  surgeon  he  was  topping, — so  truthful. 

"I  don't  get  her  for  nothing,"  said  Mr.  For- 
rest. "I  give  her—" 

"Well,  what?" 

"What  she's  worth,"  said  Mr.  Forrest  with  an 
effort.  He  looked  a  little  hangdog,  glancing  at 
his  friend. 

"Oh, — Miss  Astley!"  said  Dr.  Ashwin,  and 
all  was  clear  and  comfortable.  Opposite-but- 
one?  they  were  acquainted  with  Miss  Astley.  He 
leant  back. 

"Wicken,  see  here,"  said  Mr.  Forrest,  calm- 
ing. "Call  a  truce,  and  sit  down.  Your  excite- 
ment is — er — symptomatic.  Who  is  the  sweep?" 

"He  is  a  man,"  said  Henry,  "called  Lancas- 


ter"- 


"Lane!"  said  Nichol,  sharply. 
They  all  sat  down. 


PENNY   ROSES  333 

"I  don't  believe  a  thing  of  it,"  said  Mr.  For- 
rest presently.  "I  don't  believe  even  the — " 

"Facts,"  swept  in  Henry.  "You  said  that  be- 
fore. Ashwin, — please, — do  you  believe  it?" 

"Allowing  for  the  personal  equation,"  said  Dr. 
Ashwin,  "I  do." 

"Thank  God Now,  then,  surgeon: 

what  don't  you  believe?" 

"I  believe  you  took  her  to  the  hospital,  and  I 
credit  they  refused  to  admit  her  to  the  case, — a 
silly  girl."  Henry  merely  looked  shocked.  "I 
do  not  believe  she  and  what's-his-name's  mother 
fought.  She  couldn't  fight, — she's  no  fight  in 
her.  And  a  bedridden  old  woman,  of  the  kind 
you  describe, — I  mean,  in  the  situation — " 

"What  kind? — what  situation?"   said  Henry. 

"Tellement  eprouvee,"  murmured  Dr.  Ash- 
win, smoking. 

"Ashwin!  She  isn't  eprouvee,  the  least.  She's 
having  the  time  of  her  life, — showing  off  the 

medals, — whacking  her  grandchildren 

But  I'm  thankful  to  tell  you,  on  my  aunt's  evi- 
dence, they're  none  of  them  so  fine  as  her  sons 


were — " 


"€3,"  murmured  Nichol,  watching  Henry. 


334  MADAM 

What  did  he  mean?  Pleased  at  the  race  going 
down?  He  could  not  be  serious ! 

"She's  a  beastly  old  woman,  Church  or  no.  I 
can't  tell  you  her  last  proceeding — it  breaks  my 
heart—" 

"Dying,"  remarked  Dr.  Ashwin,  "will  be  the 
last  of  all, — so  I've  noticed." 

"Oh,  thank  heaven  for  doctors!"  Henry 
turned.  "It's  the  sole  solution.  Could  you  en- 
courage it? There's  a  rotten  man  down 

there,  like  you,  who  is  keeping  her  alive.  She's 
alone  now,  the  little  girl  dead, — she  probably 
killed  her—" 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Nichol,  gently. 

"I  won't She's  alone  in  her  glory, — 

but  she'll  live  to  a  hundred,  and  keep  that  pen- 
sion, every  penny  of  it,  all  the  time.  Forrest, 
Miss  Astley  will  be  forty-six  by  then, — still  top- 
ping, of  course,  and  Lancaster  will  be — Lord, 
arithmetic  I" 

"Can't  Colonel  Wicken  split  the  pension?" 
said  Mr.  Forrest,  now  interested  and  quiet. 

"No,  he  can't.  The  Harmsworth  Press  would 
be  down  on  him." 

"Does  that  matter?" 

"To  my  uncle,  Ashwin No,  the  Col- 


PENNY   ROSES  335 

onel's  played  his  stunt,  walked  into  her  all  he 
knows,  but  it's  hopeless.  She's  too  old  and 
eprouvee.  Not  for  all  her  stocking-savings,  it 
can't  be  done.  He'd  refuse  it,  too, — that's  an- 
other story What's  the  solution?" 

"I   am   afraid,"   said   Dr.   Ashwin,    dreamy, 

"they'll  have  to  wait We're  all  doing 

that." 


FINIS 

THEY  waited,  since  the  world  did. 

They  will  be  married,  of  course,  finally, — 
were  married,  shall  we  say,  for  the  sake  of  the 
tales?  Is  that  Future,  frowning  ahead  of  us,  so 
much  unlike  the  past,  O  ye  of  little  faith?  Bet- 
ter, of  course, — more  wonderful, — we  should  die 
else! — but  watch,  and  you  will  see  the  old  prim- 
roses, in  the  old  places,  and  the  tales,  twenty 
times  told  to  loving  ears,  come  true  again 

So  they  were  married:  rather  soon,  probably, 
after  Paish  made  Lina's  acquaintance, — Ameri- 
cans are  so  perfect,  to  women.  Her  employer, 
her  mother,  her  sister,  did  not  lose  her  services  to 
the  last,  nor  her  father  the  light  of  her  counte- 
nance. But  there  will  come — there  came — a 
time,  too  dear  for  description,  when  she  carried 
all  these  things  to  Mott:  and  after  that  he  kept 
them,  because  he  saw  to  it.  Mrs.  Dermot  Lane 
will  not  work,  we  are  told,  after  marriage :  ex- 
cept shorthand  notes  for  her  husband  of  the  more 
interesting  meetings;  though  he  will  probably 

336 


FINIS  337 

let  her  give  an  eye  to  Curly  and  the  Clapham 
menage,  now  and  then. 

And  Nicholas  mother's  nice  girl  had  Mr.  For- 
rest's post,  because  Nichol  never  forgot  about  it. 

And  Mrs.  Lane  never  stirred  a  fraction  of  an 
inch,  for  all  the  Colonel :  Henry  was  quite  right. 
The  tale  of  Mrs.  Lane  is  too  long  even  for  Henry 
to  tell,  having  no  turning  (as  he  says)  :  but  the 
short  facts  that  broke  his  heart  were  these: 

He  primed  the  Colonel,  fed  him  gently  with 
what  his  sister  had  guessed, — Jock's  story,  that 
is,  the  littlest  and  prettiest  of  all.  He  told  it  un- 
adorned in  the  simplest  diction,  but  the  old  man 
"rose"  like  anything. 

He  wrote  Mrs.  Lane  a  finer  letter  than  Henry 
could  have  conceived,  a  true  manorial  letter,  in 
the  old-Country-Squire  style.  He  said  the  least 
she  could  do,  if  she  were  proud  of  Christopher 
as  she  pretended,  was  to  support  the  girl  (Mona) 
and  let  the  youngster  marry;  and  he  said,  any 
other  mother  on  earth  would  be  proud  of  Mott. 
True,  he  had  never  gone  beyond  England,  said 
the  Colonel :  but  he  had  fought  a  few  battles  on 
the  home-field;  and  as  for  his  opinions,  they 
could  hardly  blow  up  society,  while  he  slaved  so 


338  MADAM 

hard.  He  had  thought  the  tenets  of  religion 
made  room  for  charity,  said  the  Colonel:  and 
referred,  with  chapter  and  verse,  to  certain  parts 
of  Testament  history  where  persons  of  Mona's 
kind  had  been  at  least  allowed 

It  was  useless:  Mrs.  Lane  was  too  far  gone, 
even  for  her  Squire's  light  to  turn  her;  she  had 
hypnotised  herself,  by  persistent  selfish  praying 
into  an  utterly  unmanageable  frame  of  mind. 
When  Mott  (which  was  the  tale  untold)  went  to 
his  sister's  funeral,  Mrs.  Lane  made  him  a  pub- 
lic scandal  in  Wandsley,  and  shut  the  door  in  his 
face.  He  came  back  to  Henry,  broken  by  grief, 
of  course,  but  quite  determined. 

The  odd  thing  was,  that  it  came  to  Henry  in 
dreams,  then  and  long  afterwards,  as  little  Lane 
made  his  way  in  the  world,  that  he  (Mott)  was 
very  like  her.  They  each  had  a  theory  of  life, 
passionately  and  devoutly  held,  that  precluded 
all  other  theories.  The  only  point  to  be  regretted 
was,  that  one  of  these  conceptions,  for  such  a  pair 
to  live  in  the  same  house  or  town, — or  perchance 
nation, — would  have  to  knock  the  other  out. 

Consequently  Mrs.  Lane  was  (will  be)  over- 
whelmed, she  and  her  faith,  by  Mott  mounting, 
with  all  his  peers,  upon  the  rising  tide.  There  is 


FINIS  339 

no  hope  for  her :  she  is  old,  and  he  is  young,  and 
the  world — oh,  Mrs.  Lane  is  ashamed  of  it,  when 
whispers  reach  her!  It  is  bad,  bad,  bad 

And  Erith's  is  lovely,  lovely 

And  Mott's? 


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